Although Athanasius was unrelenting in his insistence that homoousian was the only word acceptable, Alexander was considering the lesser version. It would avoid the pending crisis—all of the charges and countercharges, the councils, the fights.
On the other hand, he was concerned about his own mortality. He knew he didn’t have much time left in this life. How would he explain to the Almighty his compromise when he strongly believed God and Jesus were of the same nature? This might be the defining decision of his life. But he was tired of the day-to-day toils and would often fall asleep during the day. Sometimes he fell asleep, even while he was meeting with people. His mind wandered back to the wedding as the bride answered “I do.”
“Your Holiness, I ask you again. What is your choice?”
“I am sorry, Athanasius. Choice of what?” Alexander asked quietly.
“Choice of a synod of our See’s Bishops or a larger Council of Bishops of the Eastern Empire?”
Alexander answered in a whisper. “Athanasius, once we start that process it is irreversible. The conflict will rise to the point that there can be no middle ground. It becomes what Pope Sylvester and Ossius have requested that we avoid—a spectacle. Using Eusebius’ Greek word is a reasonable compromise. One which satisfies all parties and avoids a potential impasse. Or a loss of our position, if the bishops were to decide against us.”
Athanasius responded with a tight-lipped reply. “Your Holiness, there will be no loss of our position. I have been promised by a majority of our bishops that they will stay with us. In response to your suggestion of compromise, I ask you: did Christ compromise? He had several easy ways of escape. Did He choose those easy ways? No. He went forward and died on the Cross for us. And your intention now is to repay him by taking an easy escape?”
There were a few minutes of silence between the men. In that break, Athanasius decided he’d been too emotional. He needed to return to reason. “This is not a fight to death. It is a fight over the correct dogma. Over the correct way for the world to view our Savior. But that is important.”
Alexander looked wearily at his young deacon and then looked away to gather his thoughts.
After a few more moments passed, he answered, again in whispered tones. “In many ways, I would rather this were a fight to my death. The havoc it will cause my Church may be much worse. Well, so be it. We will have a synod of the bishops and priests of only our dioceses—not of the entire Eastern Empire. We will plan for early fall, after the summer’s heat breaks.”
In perfect time, the horns blew from the front of the church announcing the new marriage.
Bay of Naples
Summer 1076 AUC (323 AD)
Naples had been the headquarters of the Roman Navy for several centuries. Located southeast of Rome, on the west coast of Italy, the bay was protected and secure. Most naval operations were managed in a harbor just northeast of the small island of Megaride, directly off the mainland.
According to Greek legend, the body of the siren Parthenope washed up on Megaride’s shore after she drowned because she’d failed to lure the great Ulysses to his death. The reason for that legend’s location was easy to see, Naples was beautiful, but rugged. The City was surrounded by jagged mountains. It was a natural naval fortress that had repelled even the great tactician Hannibal.
Crispus examined the fleet from his chariot. The larger ships stayed in the deep water near the close side of Megaride; the smaller ones were anchored closer to the harbor. Small transport boats shuttled back and forth, like water bugs on a pond.
When he looked at the fleet, he didn’t see ships but small battlefields—as his father had taught him. Perhaps there was a better way. But this was how the Empire had always looked at its navy, as an extension of its ground forces. Rome had been built on its legions, not its ships. It didn’t develop significant naval power until it had been challenged by Carthage—led by Hannibal—two centuries before Christ’s birth.
The first ships they built were large, oar powered battering rams that had a tendency to sink in major storms. By the time the Romans conquered Carthage they had perfected the design of large warships. Then, for several decades, the Empire was attacked by swifter, smaller pirate ships designed in the East. As a result, the navy Crispus now commanded comprised several dozen heavy galleys—mostly triremes—and over 200 smaller and lighter liburnians. He also was responsible for thousands of small transport and landing ships.
For movement, the triremes relied on approximately 170 oarsmen arranged in three levels. The liburnian ships were biremes which used 35 to 40 oarsmen arranged in two levels. Both types of warship used sails when conditions permitted.
Popular legend held that oarsmen were “galley slaves” forced into labor and shackled to their seats. This wasn’t so—and hadn’t been for generations. All crew members were free men, including oarsmen. They were shackled to their seats by pay, not chains.
Most of the warships’ crews were Greek, Egyptian or Carthaginian. Their pay was less than the pay of soldiers in the Roman Army, even though the mortality rate for naval troops in combat was quite high.
In addition to their crews, the triremes could carry as many as 50 marines on the upper deck; the biremes, about 15. Some of the marines—about one in five—were archers. The rest were trained on naval weapons.
The upper decks of both ships were typically equipped with catapults to hurl heavy stones and burning pitch. Most ships also had mounted ballista, large mechanical bows that could shoot large wood piercing lances. They could also shoot grapples with ropes which were used to hook onto opposing ships and pull them alongside for boarding. Once a specially-designed boarding plank dropped, Roman marines would attack as ground troops might.
All the attack ships had large metal rams designed into their bows at the water line. The boats could ram if they needed to—but that practice had diminished as the Romans became more sophisticated with other naval weapons and tactics.
A question that Crispus had considered, as he watched the fleet, was how long to stay here. Or move. There was a smaller naval port on the Adriatic side of Italy, near Ravenna. And Constantine had started to build a major port on the Eastern shore of Greece, near his military base in Thessalonica. The harbor at Thessalonica was complete but the docks and administrative facilities were still works in progress. But either of the other locations was closer to where the war with Licinius was likely to take place.
Crispus climbed off of his chariot and walked along the dock where his liburnian—the fastest bireme he could find—was moored. Past the ram of his boat, he noticed a transport out the in bay with an officer waving at him. Thestor, he thought. He waved back and gestured to a point further down the dock.
As he waited for the admiral of the biremes to join him, Crispus marveled at the beauty of the coral blue water stretching out into the Mediterranean, surrounding Megaride and supporting hundreds of his ships. He wished his wife could see how beautiful it was.
He missed his wife; he missed their love. He knew he could have a prostitute. Or several. But his father was Constantine. And Constantine had an increasingly strict moral compass. There was no question his father would hear about any dalliances with prostitutes; and Crispus knew his father would be critical.
Crispus’ wife and infant son would join him when he arrived at Thessalonica. But that seemed a long way off. His plan had been to train with the navy for several months in Naples and then sail a large portion of the fleet to Thessalonica. From Thessalonica it would be an easy distance to Licinius’ fleet by the straits of Hellensport and Bosporus. But maybe that plan would change….
Licinius’ fleet was led by Amandus, an established admiral who had more ships under his command than Crispus had under his. Amandus’ fleet was comprised of some 350 triremes and biremes; and his attack ships were also larger. His biremes housed up to 50 oarsmen.
To compensate, speed wou
ld have to be Crispus’ strength. He was learning his boats from first-hand experience. He had spent the last couple of weeks sailing and rowing the larger triremes. This had been the first full day he’d sailed on his liburnian—and he was amazed at the speed it could attain both on sail and with oars. And how quickly the smaller ships could maneuver.
As Thestor’s two-oar transport pulled up in front of the ram of the liburnian, Crispus yelled to the older Greek: “Thestor, I am dumbfounded. These smaller boats are fast! And rowing them seems easier. I didn’t get as tired as I did on the triremes.”
Thestor was Crispus’ favorite naval officer. As a young captain, he had taken Crispus’ grandfather Constantius to Britannia. And he had met Crispus’ father, the Emperor, several times.
“Yes. Different muscles. Bigger boats need oarsmen more like me, short and stout. Smaller boats we like longer arms, faster.” Thestor answered, climbing out of the transport, nodding thanks to the two oarsmen and shaking Crispus’ forearm—all in one fluid motion.
“Amandus’ liburnians are bigger than ours. Are they as fast?”
“No, Caesar. Not as fast. We are lighter have less draft. But they have more oars. With wind in our sails, we win. Also with wind, we can ram more. The oars aren’t as tired.”
Crispus looked back at his boat. “So, if we were lighter still, had wind into our sails and could ram, we would be able to overcome heavier ships?”
“We will win regardless, Caesar. God is with us. But—” and here the sailor in Thestor trumped the officer, “—how would you make us lighter?”
“We could carry fewer marines. Take the ballista, catapults and heavy artillery stones off the ships.”
Thestor looked at him with doubt. “A risky move. If you’re boarded, you are dead.”
“Then carry archers.”
“Perhaps, Caesar. Perhaps.”
Alexandria, Egypt
September, 1076 AUC (323 AD)
Athanasius was in his element. There were over 100 bishops as well as priests and deacons from the southern rim of the Eastern Empire assembled in the main church in Alexandria. For three days, they had discussed the same points of the Arian controversy that he had discussed with them individually. He was confident that his earlier efforts would influence the outcome of this larger gathering.
The evening before the conclusion of the synod, Alexander spoke with Athanasius and a Palestinian priest. They discussed what proposed remedies they should expect.
Athanasius had spoken boldly, as he usually did on this subject. “We should state emphatically what orthodoxy demands—insofar as the equality of our Lord and God. And those that we know to have beliefs otherwise should be excommunicated.”
The Palestinian priest answered first. “I am not so sure we should be so strident, Athanasius. Many of the skeptics are just that, unsure that the equality is obvious. St. Thomas is referred to as ‘Doubting Thomas’ but Jesus didn’t reject him. He loved the Doubter as much as all the other Apostles.”
“I agree, Athanasius. Something less judgmental,” Alexander added. He seemed relieved that the Palestinian had taken the lead in the exchange.
“I respect you both, eminences. But this is far different than what St. Thomas faced. In his time, there had never been a Son of God on earth. There had never been a resurrection from the dead before. These things have now become historical facts. They are cornerstones of our faith. Our belief in God living here on earth is no longer based on prophesy—but history. Therefore the only question is: Was that God on earth in human form a lesser being? You either believe He was God and you are a Christian or you don’t and you are an Arian.”
The next day, the synod concluded with a proclamation that God and Jesus were homoousian. And it listed several bishops or priests of the Eastern Empire who had written or spoken differently— and were, therefore, excommunicated. No longer allowed to take communion. Prominently listed among the excommunicated were Arius, Eusebius of Nicomedia and Eusebius of Caesarea.
Athanasius took great pride in the fact that he had maintained the strictest measures of faith for the Church. But some of his supporters, including Alexander, had doubts.
The bemused old bishop had indulged the process—and Athanasius realized this. He worried that he wouldn’t be able to maintain such measures without Alexander’s indulgence. He needed a way to expand his own influence, in his own right.
Bithynia, Asia Minor
October, 1076 AUC (323 AD)
Eusebius of Nicomedia was hosting more than 50 bishops, priests and clergy from Asia Minor, Syria and Libya. A large former pagan compound in a town south of his see had recently been converted to a church and retreat center; it afforded the room—and the privacy— necessary for this “second” synod.
On the night before the last day of the meeting, the day when most of the important matters would be discussed, Eusebius couldn’t sleep. He sat on the edge of his bed, the room lit by the flickering flame on the wick of the oil lamp on his night stand.
Balanced on his legs were a flat writing board, his inkwell and a piece of writing linen. He was writing a list of things he needed to get done. He wanted to talk to Secundus and Theonus concerning their thoughts, warn Arius about digressing and decide what the main conclusion would be coming out of the synod.
He stopped writing and gently cursed at his pen as it leaked some ink onto his finger.
As he wiped his finger he re-read the last two items on his list. He loved Arius—but there was no question Arius was aging. His tendency to ramble often led him into subject areas better left alone. Eusebius would gently caution him, hoping that would stop some of his more radical outbursts.
The extent of how far the synod’s conclusions should go was a far more sensitive subject. He had no doubt that he could recommend the excommunication of Alexander and his upstart deacon. He’d have the support of bishops Secundus and Theonus who disliked the Alexandrians immensely. In fact, all of this synod’s participants were infuriated by Athanasius’ uncompromising arrogance. But declaring the sitting Pope of Alexandria excommunicated might be too aggressive, even for this group.
Writing three other minor tasks on his list, Eusebius put the writing board down, blew out the oil lamp, said a brief prayer and turned into his bed.
The next day, the synod declared Arius and his followers to be reinstated and allowed to take communion. All priests in attendance were encouraged to support Arius’ views. Those that couldn’t would run the risk of being excommunicated in the future.
Adrianople, Thrace
December, 1076 AUC (323 AD)
Licinius prided himself as being a fierce competitor. This was obvious, as he walked the hill overlooking the Hebrus River on one side of the hill and the city nestled below on the other side. Yelling to his Dux and select centurions, he commanded where they should plan to put different barriers, what weapons should be used where and how far their lines should extend to repulse Constantine’s coming attack.
He concentrated on every detail that he could imagine would give him an advantage over his rival. He was particularly attentive to arming the ridge of the hill overlooking the river with artillery stone catapults, ballistae and hundreds of scorpios.
Scorpios were a sort of stationary crossbow, an individually-fired sniper weapon that shot smaller stone “bolts” with fatal accuracy. And enough power to kill through armor.
Licinius and Constantia had chosen Adrianople as the place to confront Constantine’s army. The city was easy to defend, lying slightly lower than the shallow ridge that surrounded most of it. The other side of the ridge sloped gradually to the Hebrus River.
On the opposite side of the river were miles of watery lowlands. The battlefield conditions were difficult for any army planning a quick attack.
Licinius’ army was in the very early stages of fortifying the ridge between the city and the river. T
he defensive strategy was simple: Arm the ridge to inflict maximum casualties on any approaching forces. He had ordered the army to dig long trenches along the closer river bank, so that any horses that got over the river would have difficulty making progress up the hill.
While spies reported that Constantine had become increasingly pious and lived by a strict moral code, Licinius had no problem stretching moral standards to fit his desires. The proclamation he had made with Constantine in Milan—about religious freedom and ending the persecution of Christians—had been fine at the time. Now, ten years later, it didn’t serve his purpose any longer.
But ridge fortifications and broken promises weren’t Licinius’ only problems.
One of his problems was a simmering concern that Christians favored Constantine. To have such people in the Imperial government created an advantage for Constantine. So, Licinius relied increasingly on pagans as bureaucrats. He removed Christians from public office whenever he could.
Another of his problems was money. Licinius needed it—and the wealthy Christians had it. So he ordered the looting of many churches and ostracism of wealthier Christians. Of course, that only made the first part of the problem worse….
And the biggest of his problems was time. Or age, to be more precise. Licinius was ten years older than Constantine. He knew he had less time than his rival—but the same ambition. To be the one, true Emperor of Rome. His wife had noted, trying to be helpful, that his habit of laughing nervously was increasing. He told her that he was afraid that he was running out of time.
His marriage to Constantia was one of the best things that had happened to Licinius. She was a true patrician. She didn’t hate her brother, Constantine, or enjoy intrigues or treachery; she was simply loyal to her own husband. Her devotion was obvious. And she doted on their son, who was just five years old.
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