Which was good, because Licinius didn’t care for children.
They had chosen this place to confront Constantine’s army, knowing that Licinius didn’t have to do anything to draw Constantine in. All he had to do was make camp and prepare the field for battle. The spies and court gossips would make sure that Constantine came to him. As he reached the bottom of the hill and the bank of the Hebrus, he gave his last command of the day.
“Destroy all of the bridges.”
That evening, after a quiet dinner, Constantia sent the servants away so that she and Licinius could speak privately. “Husband, I know that you believe you must confront Constantine. I know this, but I dread it. I feel I would be failing you as a wife if I didn’t ask you to consider all alternatives. Is there no way to make a lasting peace with my brother? A new treaty? An abdication?”
Licinius looked at her. They’d been married nearly ten years. Before this, he’d never stayed with the same woman for more than a few years. But this marriage was different. He admired her.
He started with a short laugh. “Ha! I would certainly accept your brother’s abdication, Constantia. But I doubt he would offer it. Emperors do not abdicate. It has never happened in the Empire and isn’t going to begin with me. If Constantine insists on taking more of my land, we will fight!”
“Negotiate?” Constantina replied, keeping her tone serious and imploring.
“There is no negotiating with your brother, my wife. He takes what he wants, does what he wants, and then demands you pay him taxes on what you have left.”
“Husband, I will support you in this. But remember that every war has a winner and a loser. And, though his God speaks of mercy, my brother is not a merciful winner.”
“Constantia!” Licinius said sharply, “I appreciate your concern. But if you think I will be the loser, you have not witnessed the beauty of our position here in Adrianople. I know this area. I have fought here before. And must I remind you of the wars I have won in the past against far superior foes. Maximinus Daia. The Sarmatians.”
He left out the fact that he had unsuccessfully faced Constantine in battle. Twice.
“Husband, I do not in any way underestimate you. But I do fear my brother. He is…different.”
“Different in that life does not defeat him? In that he is a god? No. He is just a ruthless soldier put on this earth to make my life miserable. While he waves his false religion in everyone’s face.”
Constantina let her husband’s frustrations subside and then replied. “I don’t mean that my brother is different than other men. I mean that he is different than he used to be. He seems…harder. Less kind. I hear this—and I see it in the short notes he sends to me. Perhaps, if you would allow me to speak to him, I could suggest a different conclusion than war.”
“No, wife. That will not happen. You grossly underestimate my strength here.”
Constantia got up from the dining table quickly, Licinius followed equally quickly. He reached out with his hand, to insure she didn’t leave the room angry. She accepted his hand, slightly shaking her head. They walked to their son’s room to check on him.
Alexandria, Egypt
December, 1076 AUC (323 AD)
Alexander and Athanasius walked toward the beach in the yard of the Pope’s residence. The sun had fallen into the last quarter of its decent into the Mediterranean.
A servant walked behind them in the event the Pope needed any help. This part of the city was popular with residents, who often walked along this stretch of beach.
Both Alexander and Athanasius had just read the declarations from the Synod of Bithynia. Athanasius was, of course, infuriated.
“Really, Holiness, this is blasphemy! Does the former Bishop of Nicomedia not comprehend his own limitations? Does he not understand that a mere bishop does not command the Pope? Has God not blessed him with even the humility to realize his position? That his self-importance is so great that he dares to ‘possibly recommend’ the excommunication of a Pope? Does he not fear that God may strike him dead for his imprudence?”
“Athanasius, please. This is merely one move in the game that we play. Eusebius is a powerful bishop and his synod was simply a reaction to our synod. Did you expect that he would react otherwise?” Alexander replied, having reached the water’s edge. He bent over to look at a shell.
“Frankly, yes. I expect that to be excommunicated is more than just a humbling experience. It is a removal from the benefit and blessings of the Church. Being without the sacrament of Holy Communion, being devoid of the benefits of Jesus’ blessing for a life ever after. It would be devastating to me. You should communicate with Pope Sylvester in Rome, concerning this breach. I am sure he would excommunicate the Bishop of Nicomedia.”
“I am not sure my counterpart in Rome would appreciate being part of this conflict. I suspect he’s is content that it is a regional controversy.”
Athanasius followed Alexander into the shallow water—not seeming to notice it. “Your Holiness, this is not just a regional controversy. It is a worldwide Church crisis! We in the East are merely the front line. We must communicate to all believers within the Church to warn them. We should confirm our position with a council including the entire Eastern Church. As soon as possible.”
Alexander waved his hands in the water to rinse off some sand. “Athanasius, a civil war is brewing between Constantine and Licinius. An Eastern Empire Council is not going to happen. Travel is already difficult and, once the military hostilities begin, it will even get worse. Can you imagine how Ossius might try to communicate this to the Emperor? The bishops wish to have a convention, so please don’t attack the pagan Licinius until we are through.”
Athanasius was silent while Alexander walked back onto the sand. Then: “At a minimum, we must inform the other bishops. I have been working on a letter for your approval that summarizes and substantiates our position. Perhaps you can review it and we will send it to all the bishops?”
“Yes, Athanasius. That would be fine,” said Alexander, as if the topic was of minor importance. He picked up a two shells handed them to his servant. Then he turned to head back to his residence. There was a low rumble of a thunderstorm in the distance. “Strange,” he said—not really to Athanasius or his servant, but to himself. “We had rain yesterday. It’s not often we have it two days in a row this time of year.”
Thessalonica, Greece
Early, 1077 AUC (324 AD)
Crispus and his fleet arrived in Thessalonica late in the evening. This was unusual—but Crispus had pressed his sailors and ships to make good time.
Constantine, eager to talk to his son, arrived a few hours later in the bright morning. They walked along the main sea wall of the growing port, followed by a small army of bodyguards. Constantine wanted to know about Crispus’ preparations. In detail.
“Every defense has weaknesses, Crispus. Always be watching for your enemy’s weakness. Then attack it, even if that means changing in the middle of a campaign. The great generals have always been flexible once they have engaged in battle. Dynamic. This is more important than one’s initial strategy.”
“I understand, father. I have studied the famous battles of Alexander and Hannibal. And Julius Caesar. I have read all I can about Octavian’s victory over Marc Antony in the Ionian Sea. I think I am getting there with Amandus. First, he is old.”
“Not much older than I am.” Constantine responded sardonically.
“I mean, he is an older, long-time admiral. With that, often comes complacency. In your case, father, you have never been complacent. In his case, however…he is. I have heard from more than one spy that their fleet practices infrequently. They spend a lot of time in port. Amandus is overconfident about facing an inexperienced admiral—me—and our smaller fleet. He also likes a bit of wine.”
“Good, so far. What is second?”
“Our liburnians
are smaller, lighter and faster than theirs. I believe, if we can get even more speed by getting rid of as much weight as possible, we will be superior.”
“How do you get rid of weight?” Constantine drilled all his Generals like this. He wished there had been time to do it more with Crispus when he was younger.
“Fewer armed troops. Going through each galley to get rid of non-essential equipment—and some essentials.”
“What essentials are you getting rid of?”
“Ballistas. Catapults. Heavy artillery stones,” Crispus replied. He hesitated a moment before mentioning the last item. “And the landing platforms.”
“The landing platforms? How will you board Amandus’ ships?”
“We won’t need them. Our strategy is to change the way we fight, from boarding and fighting as we do on a battlefield, to doing everything we can to sink our opponents. They won’t be expecting our maneuvers—nor our ramming—because they will be focused on grappling and boarding,” Crispus answered. His didn’t waver.
He father thought for a moment. “If you have less weight, your ramming will be compromised.”
“We’ve tested that. With sharper bows and faster speed, we are equally effective. Possibly more effective.”
Constantine’s next question came quickly: “How will you defended yourself if you are boarded? With fewer armed troops?”
“That is a risk. We need our best archers and perhaps two or three Marines per ship. But, again, our strategy is not boarding them. It is sinking them.”
“Yes, a risk. Is there anything else?” Constantine asked.
“Yes. But I have not been able to address it, because I will only know on the day of the battle,” Crispus said. “But this is it: a combination of wind and confinement is my friend. Open sea is probably my foe.”
“You are doing well, son. I am very proud of you.” Constantine said, squeezing Crispus’ arm. “You are thinking like a general.”
“Thank you, father. It is an honor to serve under your command and to try to think like you!”
They continued their walk toward the pier where Crispus had moored the bireme he’d sailed from Naples. From a distance, there was no mistaking that the two men were father and son. They had similar builds, similar gaits and made similar gestures when they spoke. As they walked their shoulders would periodically touch, disturbing neither’s gait. A touch both seemed to enjoy.
Nicomedia, Asia Minor
Spring 1077 AUC (324 AD)
Arius sat across from Eusebius. Trees along the edges of stone patio next to Eusebius’ Church shaded them from the bright spring sun while they ate lunch. Arius had decided not to speak of Church matters, at least for one day. He’d planned to focus instead on a flock of birds that he’d recently noticed.
And then one of Eusebius’ deacons brought them a letter. Eusebius looked at it quickly, shook his head and then handed it to Arius.
It was a carefully made copy of an original letter between the two Alexanders—Bishop Alexander of Alexandria and Bishop Alexander of Byzantium. It was, nominally, from one bishop to another. But Arius recognized its real author immediately. It was divided into fourteen sections. And strident from the first few words.
“Athanasius has outdone himself,” Arius said.
Eusebius nodded and examined one of the olives on his plate.
“I’ve heard about this letter. I’d hoped I could avoid seeing it.”
“Agreed. Yet here it is. Shall I read it?”
“I suppose. I’ll try not to let it ruin my appetite.”
Arius drank some water and unscrolled the letter to read the first of several pages.
To the most reverend and like-minded brother Alexander, Alexander sends greeting in the Lord.
The ambitious and avaricious will of wicked men is always wont to lay snares against those churches which seem greater, by various pretexts attacking the ecclesiastical piety of such. For incited by the devil who works in them, to the lust of that which is set before them, and throwing away all religious scruples, they trample under foot the fear of the judgment of God. Concerning which things, I who suffer, have thought it necessary to show to your piety, in order that you may be aware of such men, lest any of them presume to set foot in your dioceses, whether by themselves or by others; for these sorcerers know how to use hypocrisy to carry out their fraud; and to employ letters composed and dressed out with lies, which are able to deceive a man who is intent upon a simple and sincere faith.
Arius, therefore, and Achilles, having lately entered into a conspiracy, emulating the ambition of Colluthus, have turned out far worse than he. For Colluthus, indeed, who reprehends these very men, found some pretext for his evil purpose; but these, beholding his battering of Christ, endured no longer to be subject to the Church; but building for themselves dens of thieves, they hold their assemblies in them unceasingly, night and day directing their calumnies against Christ and against us.
Eusebius had stopped eating. But that wasn’t enough. He clicked his tongue. “Here we go again. I do all the work concocting these calumnies and heresies—and Athanasius gives you all the glory.”
Arius laughed, drank more water and continued reading.
For since they call in question all pious and apostolical doctrine, after the manner of the Jews, they have constructed a workshop for contending against Christ, denying the Godhead of our Savior, and preaching that He is only the equal of all others. And having collected all the passages which speak of His plan of salvation and His humiliation for our sakes, they endeavor from these to collect the preaching of their impiety, ignoring altogether the passages in which His eternal Godhead and unutterable glory with the Father is set forth.
Since, therefore, they back up the impious opinion concerning Christ, which is held by the Jews and Greeks, in every possible way they strive to gain their approval; busying themselves about all those things which they are wont to deride in us, and daily stirring up against us seditions and persecutions. And now, indeed, they drag us before the tribunals of the judges, by intercourse with silly and disorderly women, whom they have led into error; at another time they cast opprobrium and infamy upon the Christian religion, their young maidens disgracefully wandering about every village and street. Nay, even Christ’s indivisible tunic, which His executioners were unwilling to divide, these wretches have dared to rend.
Eusebius reached down to pet Mastiff. “Arius, you must be a consummate politician. You are now with disorderly women. Where are these women? Why are you keeping them from me?”
“Athanasius’ writing is a bit extravagant,” Arius allowed.
“Extravagant? He sounds like a hysterical child.”
Arius shrugged. “It seems to be the style of letters today. Malign frequently. And often. I am sure he will give you some credit. Later.”
“He sent copies of this letter to every Bishop in the Empire, East and West,” Eusebius said, still paying attention to Arius’ dog. “It’s an embarrassment. I don’t understand why he doesn’t simply state the facts, as you did in your letter to Alexander. He should leave out the overheated rhetoric about how we have become subhuman. I suppose it’s meant to scare people—make them fear that their names might appear in the next one, if they don’t fall in line.”
“Will it work?”
“I don’t think so.” Eusebius sighed, finally looking up from Mastiff. “I am sure you are correct. He will castigate me later in the letter. But, for now, I’ve heard enough. I’m going to walk your dog. After you have finished this epic, leave it by my door. I’ll read it. Later.”
“By the way, I meant to tell you that I heard some merchants in the marketplace singing the verses of your Thalia. The part: ‘… the members of the Holy Trinity share Unequal Glories.’ I am sure they sing it whenever they see anyone in a Christian Tunic. But it was pleasant, nevertheless. I’ve heard that your vers
es are sung in the harbors throughout the East. Sailors discuss them on their voyages. You have given the common man a lesson in theology, Arius. One that he can understand. That is God’s work.”
Arius looked up from the scroll. “Thank you. But I’m not sure it makes any difference with the bishops and priests. I suspect Alexander will call a synod after Constantine defeats Licinius?”
Eusebius nodded. “Yes, I think you are correct. Nothing will happen until that war is over. And, unless something shocking occurs, Constantine will prevail.”
“Have you heard from Licinius since he left for Adrianople?”
“No. But Constantia sent me a short note. She fears for the worst,” Eusebius said. He looked distracted, as if he was already finished with this exchange. “She’d like me to talk to Constantine. But there’s nothing anyone can do at this point. Except her husband. He could fall on his sword.”
“She’s an honorable woman. May God bless her and give her peace,” Arius made the sign of the cross and bowed his head.
Eusebius did so, too. Quickly. And then, standing up, he started to follow Mastiff.
Thessalonica, Greece
May, 1077 AUC (324 AD)
In his bedroom of the Church residence near the Imperial Palace, Ossius completed a first draft of his response to Alexander’s letter to the bishops. It was still rough—only partly done, really. He had started this letter earlier in the morning and then left it, face down, in a compartment to the left of his writing desk. When he’d come back, later in the day, he’d found the letter face up.
Someone had been reading his work. He concluded that Clodius was the likely suspect and wondered whether the matter was worth a confrontation. Ultimately, he decided it wasn’t. Yet.
He was growing tired of Clodius’ clandestine ways. Clodius never looked at him directly. He was shifty—literally, shifting his weight from one leg to the other so pronouncedly that he usually had a swaying motion whenever they spoke.
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