Imperator, Deus

by John R. Prann Jr.

  Early on, Ossius had decided that it would be better to keep this sneaky deacon close. But he was beginning to question that decision.

  He wasn’t one for out scheming schemers.

  In the meantime, there was work to do and Ossius headed out to attend to that. Constantine had called his entire command staff to gather in the courtyard of the large marina he’d recently built. It had a scenic view overlooking the port and the nearby shipyards.

  The meeting had a relaxed atmosphere, not as formal as battlefield staff meeting. Constantine wanted to discuss the logistics of the looming battle with Licinius. He stood in the middle of a circle of his commanders and asked each to describe what his units were going to do.

  Occasionally, one of his trusted generals—Ablabius, Tiberus and a few others—might add questions that followed Constantine’s line of thought. These meetings were standard, starting weeks before a campaign. They would become more frequent…and more detailed… as the departure date neared.

  Constantine’s main concern seemed to be Crispus’ naval strategy. Crispus, who was still uncomfortable speaking in front of larger groups, had brought Thestor—the Greek admiral—as a spokesman. Thestor had tried to bow before Constantine, who prohibited that with a friendly laugh and shook the old sailor’s arm.

  Tiberus was the first to question Crispus: “Young Caesar, I applaud your focus on faster ships and am pleased that you have chosen to use more sagittari. I worry that you have chosen not to carry ballista on the main decks. They are not heavy themselves but they shoot large lances over twice the distance even the best archer can shoot. And they have good accuracy. I would also suggest that you keep the iron boxes for fire arrows on the deck. I’ve only spent a short time at sea. But I could hit a ship near the water line with a fire arrow at 150 cubits.”

  “Bragging!” laughed Ablabius. “But I agree with Tiberus. Having two or three ballistae one each ship does not add much weight. Now, I see that getting rid of the catapults and heavy stones is not as crazy as I thought when I first heard the idea. But, since you aren’t going to have many marines on board, who will slice the ropes of grappling claws when they hit a ship?”

  Thestor looked to Crispus, who stepped forward to answer. “The three marines on each of the smaller ships will have long-armed scythes. To cut the hooks and ropes. Since they won’t be working catapults, they can focus on that cutting. As for the ballistae, I am having them reinstalled.”

  “Are you positive you are getting that much more speed with your cuts in arms and people?” Marcus asked.

  Thestor answered this question: “We took five ships laden and five unladed, all using our largest sails. The five unladed won in a thousand-cubit race. We then switched the crews and raced back and the same ships—the unladed ones—won again.”

  “Impressive” said Ablabius. “And ramming is still good?”

  Again, Thestor: “Yes, General. Better. We have sharpened the bows. At speed, we had no problem breaching the walls of old triremes we grounded.”

  “Will you use any of your triremes?” asked Marcus.

  “Initially, not many. We will keep most of them in reserve. Several mille behind. We hope to have land flags to direct messages to the big ships, if we need them.”

  Then, Crispus stepped in to add: “We will not be certain of exactly what mix of ships to use until we see Amandus’ fleet and the conditions we face. When we actually see what he brings to battle, we can change our forces as needed. Quickly, I believe.”

  After a short pause, Marcus said, “If we are finished with young Crispus, I have another concern about this campaign. And that is the food.”

  Many groaned. “No wait, hear me out! You others don’t have the same problem I have. I have almost 80,000 legionari who get very ornery when they’re hungry. And, during the campaign against the Goths, they were starved. We all know you can’t run an army on empty stomachs.”

  Aniketos was the head of the food detail. He stepped forward to answer Marcus, “The battles with the Goths and Sarmatians had unexpected difficulties. We had initially planned to return to Thessalonica after the first battle. Instead, we kept marching. So, we were caught short with grains and we had problems getting the meat we needed. And it was warm, so we had spoilage issues. This campaign is easier for planning. We know the destination. We know how long it will take. There are much better roads with supply farms nearby, so food will not be an issue.”

  “Are we going to have ale? A third of our legionari are Franks.”

  “Yes. And we have plenty of wine, as well.”

  Another pause and Tiberus brought up the matter of the destination: “I haven’t been to Adrianople. But I know many of us have. We have all heard what our spies have reported. The approach on the south side of the river is apparently lowlands and would be difficult for our legionari to cross. Is there any way to approach their position from the north?”

  “We don’t think so, Tiberus,” Constantine answered. As soon as he spoke, the group got very quiet and everyone listened. “There are two rivers to cross to the west and one to the east. And all of the city’s bridges have been destroyed. They are expecting us. I have some ideas to regain some elements of surprise—but we won’t be able to make a good assessment until we get there.’

  He continued. “From the perspective of the sagittari, there is not much concern. You will have dry ground and be well within your range. But, as you mentioned, it seems that it will be a challenge for the infantry. That is the riddle to be solved right now. That’s my focus.”

  As the group started to break up, Fausta appeared with Constantine’s youngest child, one-year-old Constans. And several attendants in tow. She was a striking woman—tall and elegant, with large and pleasant eyes. She wore a fashionable tunic. It was evident from her bare arms and the lines under the dress that Fausta still had a younger woman’s body, even though she was well into in her 30s and had borne Constantine three children. She was renowned as one of the Empire’s great beauties.

  Although Roman citizens hated the idea of royalty, there was no other way to describe Fausta. She looked and acted like a queen.

  This appearance was by design. It was politics. Constantine had arranged for his young wife and child to come out and embrace him, so that his staff would see that he was still a virile man. Ossius recognized this from earlier conversations they’d had. Constantine had a strong impulse to convey strength, especially to his lieutenants. He’d once told Ossius that he’d seen leaders undo themselves by conveying weakness among those they considered friends.

  Fausta greeted every one of her husband’s senior officers individually, saying at least a brief encouraging word to each. She moved and spoke like a woman who was accustomed to power. She wouldn’t do this among the larger army; but it worked here.

  Ossius noticed a slight awkwardness between Fausta and Crispus. It looked like the tension between a young man and his stepmother— who was much closer in age to him than to his parent. This was common in aristocratic families and one reason that the Church frowned on older men divorcing and remarrying.

  The Emperor didn’t seem to mind. He was either ignoring it or it was part of his plan.

  Alexandria, Egypt

  June 1077 AUC (324 AD)

  Athanasius was surrounded by warm water, in the main pool of Alexander’s private bath house. He enjoyed mid-morning baths because no one else was there. Few residences had private baths and Athanasius always looked for the opportunity to take one. It allowed him the privacy never afforded in the afternoon—when most of the clergy and select faithful would converge for social baths.

  It also allowed him to avoid older male bathers, particularly Romans. Because of his youthful appearance, they’d often assume that he was a pullus—a “chick”—the vulgar slang term for a sexually available boy. These corpulent, pock-marked sodomites would proposition him. Or reach out and grab
him under the bath water. A young boy might have to submit to that but not someone of Athanasius’ stature in the Church.

  Alone, Athanasius could relax. And he needed to. He had an aging pope. Clodius had written him that Ossius was going to demand participation of the western bishops in the next synod. Indeed, Ossius’ letter to Alexander arrived a few days later, making just that demand.

  The addition of the western bishops would change the dynamics of the next gathering substantially. The clever infidel wags were beginning to draw comparison between this theological conflict and the war between Constantine and Licinius. Both were long and drawn-out, lacking any clear conclusion. If it kept going like this, the day would come when the Church no longer had Alexander to uphold the equality of Jesus and God.

  It would take time to get the western bishops educated. As a group, they tended to be politicians first; those that cared enough to have an opinion generally viewed the dispute as esoteric. He had the recurring thought that, if they had more participation, the western bishops might agree to treat Jesus, God and the Holy Spirit as multiple gods. These so-called “practical” men, little different than pagans.

  Also, inviting the western bishops would benefit both Eusebiuses—because the Nicomedian was so close to Constantine and the Caesarean had written well-reviewed treatises on the Church’s history. Alexander was not particularly well-known in the west. Nor appreciated. Sylvester, however, was. The Constantine- Sylvester-Eusebius relationships were close. Like an Empire-Church triumvirate.

  Athanasius was the power behind Alexander, everyone knew that. The private correspondence he’d received after Alexander’s letter to Alexander of Byzantium applauded the brilliance of his theology and rhetoric. But, without the prestige of his pope, the powerful pagans—Arius and Eusebius—might prevail.

  There was no simple solution to this. He either had to find a younger sponsor…or become the next Pope of Alexandria himself.

  The more he thought about it, the more it became clear that he had to be the standard bearer for the faith. Only he knew the intricacies of the theology. Only he knew all the bishops who had pledged loyalty to the pope—and what they had been promised. It had to be him. There was no one else.

  First, he had to become a bishop. In order to become a bishop, he had to be elected by three surrounding bishops. And to be over the age of 30. Alexander wasn’t likely to be alive until Athanasius reached 30. Perhaps, when the time got close, he would write a letter for Alexander—endorsing Athanasius, regardless of his young age.

  Athanasius smiled as he got out of the bath and reached for a towel. Eusebius had done similar things to get his post in Nicomedia. But he had done it for personal political power. Athanasius would do it to assure the glory of Lord Jesus Christ.

  His first order of business, however, was to deal with Ossius’s request to involve the western bishops in the upcoming synod. That afternoon, he had the opportunity to discuss both letters with Alexander as they walked to the church for prayers.

  “Your Holiness, I worry about the contents of the letters we received from Clodius and Ossius. Our brothers in the western Empire are not as versed on the intricacies of the Scriptures as we are. To involve them would, perhaps, delay our ability to confirm our faith under the umbrella of a single orthodoxy.”

  Alexander smiled, wearily: “I share your concern Athanasius. But Ossius is correct. The entire Church should give this issue a hearing and I have no doubt it will embrace our opinion.”

  “Surely, Your Holiness, you don’t believe the bishops of Britannia or of the Rhine would have meaningful input into such a weighty subject?”

  “No. I am not sure they would. But, again, Ossius is correct: They should have the right to do so. I believe we are correct, young Athanasius. But others must be given the choice to confirm their opinion.”

  Athanasius’ whole body practically twisted, like Archimedes’ screw. “Such a process could take many years. I mean, to educate and inform all parties. There will be confusion. The participants of today may not be here to be the participants of tomorrow. So our message may get diluted with time.”

  Now, Alexander was slowly shaking his head no. “The subject matter has little room for dilution, my son. Like all such conflicts, the leaders of the Church will ultimately make the decision. Ossius’ point was only that the leaders of the west should be part of the process.”

  Athanasius wasn’t sure what had gone wrong—but he was losing this argument. He had to regroup. “Perhaps to speed the process, we could invite Ossius to participate in our eastern Council first. He would gain the insight of our resolve. After hearing the facts, he can decide whether the entire Church should endorse the findings of the East. Perhaps he could chair the Council. He would be representing the western churches. Unless, of course, your Holiness would feel obligated to take that responsibility.”

  “No, not at all. Athanasius, your idea is sound. Write Ossius the invitation—subject to the end of the civil war—and I will sign it. The location should be accessible to him, near the Bosporus but not Nicomedia.”

  “Yes my Holiness, I agree,” Athanasius responded, as they entered the vestibule of the main church.

  Adrianople, Thrace

  Late June, 1077 AUC (324 AD)

  The summer heat was starting to build, even in the morning. Constantine studied the battleground before him. The Hebrus River ran toward the horizon, just a little off center on the wide plain. Two smaller rivers flowed into it—and Adrianople sat at the confluence of the three.

  As the scouts had reported, the bridges crossing into the city had all been destroyed. On the other side of the Hebrus was one of the longest lines of troops he had ever seen. It seemed to follow the river to the horizon. He couldn’t remember seeing such a large force. It had to be over 150,000 troops, far more than he had.

  The ridge of the hill above Licinius’ troops was loaded with artillery. The lower shore, full of obstacles and barricades. It was the usual variety to delay attacking legionari—tree limbs, bolted fences and long trenches. It was enough to give Licinius’ archers and artillery ample time to decimate advancing troops. It was impressive but…conventional.

  This was Licinius’ great play, his strongest stand. If Constantine could win here, he would win completely.

  He was going to have to be unconventional. And he thought he saw a way. Licinius’ troops were many—but they were arranged thinly.

  But the landscape favored Licinius. On Constantine’s side of the river, a wide stretch of marshy sea grass and wetlands made the banks hard to see clearly. Behind the marshes, his army was camped in its standard rectangular formation. Some of his troops were in clear sight of Adrianople but more were hidden—or at least partly hidden—behind low, rolling hills. That was good.

  Licinius was inviting him to cross the river directly. There was a small strip of dry land to his left, where one of the smaller rivers flowed into the Hebrus. That was the bait. Crossing there would be suicide. The dry strip would compact with the weight of his army with all the horses. It would become a quagmire and his men would be easy targets.

  His eye kept going back to the long, thin line of troops. That was the key. If it started to collapse, Licinius wouldn’t be able to reassemble his troops and hold.

  This was a strategy Constantine had used before. But he didn’t see an easy way to cause that initial collapse.

  He sighed and shook his head. He had the pieces of the puzzle— he just hadn’t put them together correctly yet. His bodyguards stood far behind. They knew Constantine could be short tempered at times like this. Ablabius, riding alongside a very large centurion, was the only one bold enough to approach him. “Dominus, cheers! I believe we have found what you are looking for.”

  Constantine nodded to the centurion and spoke softly, “Good to see you both. What is it?”

  “A crossing. About ten mille up the Hebrus—per
haps a little less. Shall we ride there?”

  “Yes. But go ahead a bit and meet me across the camp, behind the hills. We have an audience here.” And he bent his head in the direction of the city.

  Ablabius sneered across the river. “Yes, Dominus.”

  The riders left and Constantine and his palatini walked into camp, toward the mess tent—as if to get breakfast.

  An hour later, Constantine got off his horse in a small forest of thin trees on the bank of the Hebrus. He gave his reins to one of the bodyguards, who stayed behind with Ablabius’ riders. Constantine and the rest of his guard followed Ablabius and the big centurion through the trees.

  The water ran quickly against a solid bank. Constantine kneeled down and felt the current with his hand. He looked up, down and across the river—and estimated they had a 40-cubit stretch where they could cross. It would be tight but better than any other available option.

  He stood up and walked along the river’s edge until he reached the big Centurion. He shook his arm. “Good work, Centurion. You’re a Rhinelander, a Frank, if I recall correctly. So you know rivers.”

  “Yes, Imperator. You recall correctly. This place is very much like my home.”

  Constantine looked along opposite side of the river again, to make sure they had no company. Turning back to the Centurion, he asked “How deep?”

  “About four feet, Imperator. Easy for horses but difficult for legionari. The river runs quickly.”

  Constantine looked back at his bodyguards and the others. “Let’s see for ourselves.”

  He instructed the several men still on horses and most of the group on foot to forge the river. The water was cold and the current strong, as the centurion had said. But the bed was gravel—not many larger rocks, as he’d worried it might have.

  When they reached the other side, he signaled to Ablabius and the centurion to join him as he examined that bank.