In 30 years as a soldier, he’d encountered some women fighters. Occasionally. No matter how brave or skilled, they were at a disadvantage in hand-to-hand combat on the battlefield. Amazon breasts or not.
“What sort of fool subjects his troops—and so many women—to total defeat?”
Crispus and the palatini were walking close behind him. But none answered his rhetorical question.
“How many prisoners did we take?” Constantine asked.
“About 400.” Ablabius responded quietly.
“How many of those prisoners had rank, were company commanders or better?”
“Perhaps10, maybe 12.” Ablabius again responded.
“Kill Them.” Constantine ordered.
They crossed the width of the battlefield, around mounds of dead Sarmatians. The funeral pyres would be burning for days. Maybe weeks.
At times like this, his habit was to look for wounded Roman soldiers. But he didn’t see any. So, he turned back to the small group following him. “This does not feel like a victory.”
Rome, Italia
Late 1075 AUC (322 AD)
It had been ten years since Constantine’s victory parade after defeating Maxentius and Rome was hungry for another public celebration. It was ready for festivities honoring the Emperor’s victories over the Goths and Sarmatians—the barbarians.
This parade route started at the Milvian Bridge on Via Flaminia and went directly to the new Arch of Constantine next to the Coliseum. The theme was more jocular than it had been a decade earlier. Lighter, if not more joyous. Before the army entered the City, various troupes of clowns frolicked along the way. Mimes, fools and jesters drew the attention—and loud laughter—of the gathering crowds. Wine encouraged their raucous response.
As soon as the soldiers escorting a handful of Goth and Sarmatian prisoners crossed the Bridge, the laughing and hooting transformed into the familiar worshipful roar.
Constantine had actually brought fewer troops than he had before—a few legions, really. The rest of his army was back in Thessalonica.
After the prisoners, the foot soldiers marched into Rome, followed by the archers and then a few units of riders. Next, in a new element that he’d seen in the North, Constantine had a few older centurions march ahead of him, carrying in the fallen standards of the Goth and Sarmatian generals. The roar got louder. Then, the usual bearers with his standards, the now familiar Labarum. And the roar grew. Finally, he and Crispus rode across the Bridge in identical chariots, both wearing bright purple cloaks over their armor.
And the roar was deafening.
Citizens crammed the streets, many risking the ire—and fists—of the centurions lining the route. The people were trying to run into the street to touch Constantine, his deity status confirmed again. Wine made them bold. But it didn’t make them strong enough or fast enough to get close.
At the end of the parade route, the troops had gathered in the broad streets that ran around the Coliseum, Constantine’s Arch and the Senate Forum. The Emperor, his son and his bodyguards went into the Curia for a mostly ceremonial meeting with the senators. This meeting would formalize a few things—but also gave the reveling citizens time to disperse.
The Senate had received his letters and followed his orders. He and Crispus were both given victory garlands. And the Imperial Treasury would issue commemorative coins, bearing Crispus’ likeness.
Once that meeting was over, the Senate recessed and most of the army troops were released. A large delegation of senators, dignitaries and several dozen of Constantine’s generals and officers were to be given a walking tour the new buildings that had been completed since Constantine’s victory at Milvian Bridge. This was somewhat difficult, because quite a few citizens were still partying. Several dozen legionari led the tour, clearing the streets of drunks and stragglers.
Constantine was most interested in two new churches along the inside of the Aurelian Wall. He slowed the tour at those points. They were well built and very attractive—but he agreed with the consensus that they were too small for the growing Christian faithful.
“I realize that it sounds absurd, to say that a growing Church is problem,” Pope Sylvester said while Constantine examined the fine woodwork of the altar. “But we are having trouble finding places for all of the Romans who wish to attend Mass.”
“I understand. In the army, we call this ‘logistics.’ Soldiers can only fight when the supply lines are working. And they have food and water. Simple things aren’t always…simple.” He turned to the Pope and nodded to Crispus. “Pope Sylvester, have you met my son—Flavius Julius Crispus?”
Crispus didn’t say anything right away. He was still tongue-tied in social settings.
So, Sylvester spoke first: “All Rome has heard about the young general’s ability on the field of battle.”
Constantine tilted his head to Crispus, encouraging him to say something.
“Your Holiness, it is an honor to meet you. My father has always spoken highly of you. I don’t yet share the intensity of my father’s faith but I do admire it. And I hope to learn more. Over time.”
It was a little too much—but nothing Crispus said was untrue. Soon after Sylvester had become the Pope, Constantine had walked through Rome leading Sylvester on his horse. It was viewed by the citizens as a sign of the Emperor’s Christian faith.
Church leaders in Alexandria noted that Constantine had never shown such reverence to their Pope, Alexander.
Constantine had given much more to the Roman Church. The Lateran Estate—Maxentius’ old Imperial Palace—was Sylvester’s official Papal Residence. And Constantine gave Sylvester nearby land and initial funds to build a grand Basilica, to be named for St. Peter. That church would have enough room for thousands; but it would take decades to complete.
Behind all of this support was Ossius, constantly encouraging a close alliance between the Emperor and the Pope. Ossius and Sylvester had known each other for many years and had a strong mutual respect. Ossius thought of Sylvester as a Holy Father, both spiritually and literally. Sylvester returned the favor, holding Ossius among the most honorable of the clergy he had known.
After the tour of new buildings inside the City walls, Constantine asked to see one or two of the new churches outside the walls. There was a scramble to assemble enough horses and carriages to transport everyone. During this hubbub, Sylvester invited Ossius to ride in his carriage. Ossius had hoped to slip away, unnoticed; he had a letter to read that was marked “urgent.” But he accepted his old mentor’s invitation.
As they sat across from each other, Ossius was trying to read the scroll sent to him by an agitated Syrian bishop. The scowl on his face reflected the difficulty of both the letter’s content and reading while bouncing over a Roman cobblestone road.
The Pope watched Ossius’ face, like a parent watching a favorite child—realizing that no parent can insulate the child from life’s inevitable pains. He had seen Ossius grow from a young idealistic and brave priest convinced he could stop the persecutions by traveling to Gaius’ court; to a bishop who held the respect of the most powerful Emperor of their time. Finally, he asked, “Ossius, you are talking even less then you normally do. What troubles you, my son?”
Ossius put down the scroll. “Nothing, Your Holiness. I’m just a little tired, I suppose, of the responsibilities that God gives us. At the least opportune times.”
“There are few in this world who have a greater burden than you, Ossius. You travel in many worlds—the Army, the Empire, the Church. Yet there is no one I have ever met who handles it all better. With more thoughtfulness. Or a more even temperament,” the Pope answered.
“Thank you. But I am afraid I fall short of your compliments, my Pope. With Constantine, I am riding a bull with no bridle. He is a force of nature. Powerful, decisive and increasingly deadly. Blessed but cursed at the same time. I can’t co
ntrol him. And then there are issues that should be within my control,” he held up the scroll, “but the Lord shows me no path to resolve them. This Arian controversy is one of those.”
The Pope nodded. “You do not control the Emperor. So, indeed, you must guide where you can but feel no inadequacy about his free will. He will be judged by our Lord, as we all shall be. But his reverence to God, which seems genuine, should give him good stead.”
“The Arian issue is more complicated.’ The Pope continued. ‘It doesn’t seem necessary that mortal men solve the question of Jesus’ godly nature. I’m content that it is a mystery whose full answer we will only know when we join Him in heaven. But this question is consuming many of the faithful. And we can’t control the timing—when such questions confront us. I met with Eusebius of Nicomedia a few months ago and encouraged him to find a compromise. He is a good man.”
Ossius frowned again. “It is becoming a schism to the Church in the East. And, with that, proponents for each side become hardened and distasteful of compromise.”
The Pope breathed heavily. “Alexander has always struck me as a man of profound faith, who would not be drawn into quibbling. Is it the Arian camp that concerns you?”
“No. It is Alexander’s camp. My sense is that Alexander personally would agree to a compromise. But he has a deacon who will not—and that deacon is influential. The deacon’s name is Athanasius and he has helped spread the controversy throughout the East. Eusebius has done the same thing, to a lesser degree, from the Arian viewpoint.”
“So. A compromise would be a description of Jesus’ godly nature elegant enough to be acceptable to both sides—but you fear that no such description is possible within doctrines of our faith?”
Ossius smiled. “Elegant. I’ve never thought of the solution as elegant. I’ve thought of it as ambiguous. My shortcoming. But, yes, we need this elegant compromise soon. Without it, one side or the other will foment problems and divide the Church. We’ve already had deadly rioting in some cities in the East.”
The Pope leaned toward Ossius. “God delivers problems on the plate of those who can handle them. I know you will handle this well. I don’t have the solution you need to this Arian dispute. But I promise that, if you need me to get involved, I will do so in whatever manner you wish.”
“Thank you, Your Holiness. I only wish this plate was on your lap!” Both men laughed.
The carriage stopped at the first church outside the Aurelian Walls. Sylvester followed Ossius down onto the dusty ground and looked at the crowd gathering by the entrance of the building. He could see Constantine and his handsome young son Crispus, surrounded by wealthy parishioners and the elite of Rome.
Looking back, he could just make out the walls of the City in the distance, shining in the late afternoon sun. He bowed his head and briefly thanked God for his blessings and asked the Lord to give strength and wisdom to Ossius. And then he heard Constantine’s voice calling him.
Sirmium, Pannonia
Early, 1076 AUC (323 AD)
Constantine was angry! Blindly angry! He had received a letter from Licinius, lodging a complaint. Licinius claimed that Constantine had infringed his territorial sovereignty, as defined by treaty, when he and Crispus had engaged the Goths and Sarmatians. The complaint was lengthy and—from Constantine’s perspective—a foolish provocation. Emperors had equal rights throughout the Empire.
Constantine found Ablabius by the stables and vented his frustration: “This idiot! This…buffoon…accuses me of infringing on his territory. I think the solution is to disregard that he has any territory at all and take what he has away from him.”
“This would be Licinius, Dominus?”
“Who else could irritate me ad finem?”
“And he has written you?” Ablabius asked.
“Written to complain that we abridged our treaty. He claims we trespassed into his territory during the war with the Goths and Sarmatians.”
“We have such a treaty, Dominus? I thought emperors could go wherever they wished within in the Empire.”
“You are correct. Emperors can go anywhere within the Empire. I think it is time to start planning what we are going to do with the Eastern Empire.”
“Shall we start adding legionari?” His General’s question seemed sudden.
“Not yet. Planning first. I am concerned about the size of the army we will need. With the larger size will come problems in supplying them. And Licinius will surely dig in, when we’ve surrounded him. If we have a siege, it could become a very long war.” The battle planning was already calming Constantine—as it always did.
“We will march east from Thessalonica?” Ablabius asked, looking back at his horse.
“Probably. Once we start building the army, Licinius will do the same. And we will watch where he goes. Our troops are well tested, his are not. I don’t want to give him much time, once we’ve gathered our forces, to build and train his.”
“Then we won’t be fighting until the spring,” Ablabius said.
“Correct. We have to plan, get supplies lined up, start building the troops over winter and we will be ready by late spring.”
“It will be done, Dominus.”
“And, Ablabius, get Crispus to the navy.” Constantine ordered.
Constantine’s efforts to build his army without Licinius’ knowledge proved short-lived. Within a few months, Licinius sent a Proclamation of War.
Nicomedia, Asia Minor
Spring, 1076 AUC (323 AD)
Arius, sitting on a comfortable leather chair in the sitting room of Eusebius’ villa, read the letter from the other Eusebius. Mastiff had tried to jump onto his lap three times but he was too deep in thought to allow the dog up.
The meeting between Athanasius and Eusebius of Caesarea had gone badly. Nothing in Eusebius’ description gave Arius hope that there could be a compromise. Athanasius had ended the meeting with a tirade. He accused Eusebius of much more than just heretical views—he accused the bishop of womanizing, associating with people of ill-repute, being the product of adultery and worse.
Eusebius reported that he was dumbfounded and couldn’t understand why the sudden change. He wrote that, the prior day, they had had a detailed discussion concerning the two Greek words, homoeanian and homoousian.
These words seemed to be the area that had the most potential for compromise. They had some difficulty translating the words to Latin; but Athanasius had seemed reasonable at that point. They had a long discussion concerning the Scriptures’ differences concerning Jesus being the “Son of Man” or “Son of God.” They discussed the sometimes contradictory language and the reasons for those contradictions. Eusebius thought that day had gone well.
The next morning it was like Athanasius was a different person. He would not discuss the words and rushed to leave, as if he was trying to get away from the devil.
Arius knew Athanasius from his time in Alexandria. The angry deacon had been born outside the city and grew up wanting to be a priest. He’d been a very small boy, physically—with an attractive, almost angelic, face.
There was a story that circulated through the Church in Alexandra. As a boy, Athanasius had been playing in the water with several other boys near Alexander’s residence. Looking outside, Alexander had noticed they were imitating the ceremony of baptism.
Athanasius was playing the priest.
Alexander asked Athanasius’ parents to allow the angelic boy to pursue his dream of becoming a priest. They did. Soon after, Athanasius was living with Alexander. In his early teens, he had become the bishop’s personal secretary. A few years later, a deacon.
Arius considered Athanasius pious, smart and aggressive…but mercurial. He could be reasonable one day and paranoid the next, as Eusebius described. Arius believed that having a parish would have helped him. Working with common people’s problems rather than the pressing pro
blems of Alexander’s office would give him a more grounded perspective.
In fact, Arius was surprised that Athanasius had developed a contrary view to his beliefs. He remembered a very agreeable conversation he once had with Athanasius concerning Origen’s writings. Origen had been born in Alexandria and lived there for more than half of his life. All the local priests and deacons had read from his extensive library.
Their conversation led Arius to believe Athanasius saw God in the same light as Origen did. But, clearly, Arius had been wrong. Or Athanasius had changed his mind.
Arius laughed to himself, finally letting the nagging Mastiff on his lap. “How did Origen do that self-castration thing?”
Alexandria, Egypt
Spring, 1076 AUC (323 AD)
Athanasius found Alexander sitting in the rear pew of the main church, arms folded in front of him, bent over so that his beard was nearly touching his lap.
The old bishop had come to watch a wedding officiated by one of his priests at the simple wooden altar in the front of the church. He enjoyed weddings, the start of a new life. As a young man, he had almost gotten married—but the call for celibacy in the clergy had given him pause. All his life he had harbored regret that he hadn’t made that commitment.
He reminisced that his life had been more vivid when he’d been in love with that shop keeper’s daughter, so much more laughter.
Athanasius had just returned from his meeting with Eusebius and sat in the pew next to him, upright and assured. As Alexander listened to his student’s hushed and rushed description of the meeting, he found himself picking the cuticles of his fingers, stopping when he became aware of what he was doing. “Strange,” he thought to himself, “I haven’t done that since the persecutions.”
Athanasius said that the Arians would only consider the less-exact version of the Greek word. They were so stubborn that Athanasius and Eusebius had a vicious argument, just as Athanasius was leaving.
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