As Athanasius helped Alexander out of the carriage, their brown tunic protectors relaxed in the shade of a nearby building. Alexander went directly to a vendor with a pile of rugs under a makeshift tent.
The vendor was an old man. They seemed to recognize each other.
“My friend,” Alexander said, “it has been years! How is your wife? Your son?”
“Bishop, it is good to see you again,” the merchant bowed quickly to Alexander. “My wife is no longer with us. My son is well—but he lives far away. He is a quaestor with the Romans in Nicomedia. He’s always been good with numbers. Your priest, Arius, taught him well. Arius used to live right there,” the vendor pointed a boney finger toward a small house down a side street.
Athanasius visibly bristled. But Alexander didn’t flinch; he answered sincerely, “I am sorry to hear of your wife’s passing. I will say a prayer tonight that her soul is at peace in our Lord’s company.”
“Thank you, Holiness. What brings you here, to this part of the city?” The merchant asked, aware of Alexander’s guards. And of the riots that had occurred just a few weeks earlier.
“I need a new prayer rug, my friend. My old one—which I bought from you—has seen better days.” Alexander responded, as if oblivious to any social discomfort.
As the two old men looked at rugs, Athanasius heard a catchy cadence coming from two streets away. For a moment, he couldn’t place it. Then he realized that it was from Arius’ Thalia. He quickly looked at Alexander who, although in conversation with the old merchant, smiled. He understood.
Two groups of young men—dressed in beige tunics, with crosses around their necks and staves in their hands—poured out into the main street. They outnumbered Alexander’s guards three-to-one. Or more. And they surrounded Alexander’s guards by the building.
Alexander paid for the rug and the merchant rolled it up, tied it and handed it to Athanasius. They started to walk back to the carriage. One of the beige tunics had tripped one of the brown tunics with his staff. Alexander’s guards rushed and closed ranks around the old priest—which left their comrade on the ground vulnerable.
A beige tunic tapped his staff on the fallen man’s chest and started berating him: “What are you doing here, pagan? Sodomite! We don’t like your filth in our streets!”
Athanasius tried to push Alexander into the carriage. But Alexander ignored him and walked up to the screaming beige tunic. “Son, I can see you are a believer of the Church. You are one of our Lord’s faithful. Why do you show this anger in the street? Why court violence? Jesus tells us to treat others as we would ourselves.”
Another of the beige tunics—one of their leaders—pointed at Alexander, Arius and the men in brown tunics. He replied. “These men represent lies to God. The righteous priest Arius has been maligned and subjected to ridicule by the decadent Church elite for telling the truth.”
One of the beige tunics walked up behind Athanasius—who’d followed Alexander part way—and nudged him in the back with his staff. “This one looks like a puer delicates. Maybe the old man’s pullus.”
Another leaned toward Athanasius and rubbed his face with the back of his hand. “Such soft skin. Maybe he wants to experience how a real man treats a pullus.”
A third beige tunic jammed his staff into Athanasius’ side and flipped up his tunic, baring him to his waist. Athanasius jumped forward with a high-pitched yelp, colliding with the one who’d rubbed his face.
“Hear that? He wants you! He cries for you!”
“And he’s ready for you. He wears no loincloth!”
Alexander interrupted with a loud voice—that had surprising authority. “Do not do that. Even in jest. This man is a priest. My assistant. A learned man of faith. Leave him alone. Our great teacher, Paul, warns of dire consequences for coarse behavior like this. God watches you.”
The beige tunics stood silent.
Turning to the entire group, Alexander continued: “I know of no lies to God that any of us have told. These men are students, just like you. As for this priest Arius, he is a righteous man. And that he means well for the Church. We’ve allowed our differences to grow too large. You have my word on this: We will seek a resolution. Now, I pray that you search in your souls to forgive us our trespass. If I ever return to do business with my old friend here, I will come alone.”
The beige leader hesitated for a few moments. Then he nodded to his comrades—and they stepped back from Athanasius and the fallen sentry. “Go your way, old man. But remember: God watches you, too. And you have few friends here.”
A few minutes later, when they were in friendlier parts of the city, Alexander looked at Athanasius and said simply: “That is what we have allowed to happen.”
Athanasius, still shaking, started to ask whether Alexander had planned the trip to demonstrate his point. But he kept quiet. He knew the answer.
Nicomedia, Asia Minor
Late October, 1077 AUC (324 AD)
“Eusebius, I have received a private letter from our Emperor!” Arius held up the scroll.
Eusebius was walking on the cobbled street coming from the upper city, having just officiated at the funeral of a wealthy merchant and staunch supporter of the Church. The merchant, Plinius, had made his fortune mining and trading marble throughout the Empire. His family owned much of the land east of the city. He had been a well-known figure—and a character—in Nicomedia.
“Good news, Arius. I had heard from Constantine that you and Alexander would receive something. But I do not know its contents.
Let us get a glass of wine and discuss it.”
As they walked, Arius asked: “How was Plinius’ funeral? I assume there was a huge crowd.”
“It was crowded.” Eusebius replied. “Every notable was there. He was a good man—a pleasant mixture of fun and piety. He loved his family, his friends and our Lord.”
“Do you think he was the exception to our Lord’s warning that it’s nearly impossible for a rich man to get into heaven?” Arius asked.
“I would think so,” Eusebius answered pensively. “I have always wondered what Jesus meant by that image. Camel through the eye of a needle. It seems like a very high standard. Some who still speak Aramaic say that the correct translation is ‘rope,’ not ‘camel.’ Others say ‘eye of the needle’ was an idiom for a small gate. Lots of questions about that one.”
“There are lots of rich men who want to enter the Kingdom of God,” Arius said, ruefully.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps the barrier should be high. The rich are easily diverted by material things. But..”
“Often, yes.” Eusebius interrupted. “But Plinius was not like that. He spent much of his time—and money—on the poor and the sick. He organized with others to build hospitals. He was willing to hire undesirables as workers.”
“To us, these things made him a good man. But we cannot know the thoughts of God, but I sincerely believe He is all forgiving. All forgiving for all walks of life, just as Origen believed.” Arius smiled slightly. This conversation was heading toward well-worn path between them. “I’m just happy we live in better days that Jesus did.”
“You hold proof of that in your hand. Constantine is a moral man. The emperors of Jesus’ time—Tiberus and Caligula—were rapists and murderers. Let’s hope that Constantine’s restoration of the unitary Emperor doesn’t lead us back to those depravities.” They had reached the café. Eusebius pointed to his favorite table.
After ordering their wine, Arius handed Constantine’s letter to Eusebius. Arius watched his friend as he quickly read its contents.
“He wants a compromise and he is pushing Alexander for it.” Eusebius commented, “I don’t like the number of times he mentions the trifling nature of the conflict. That will wound Athanasius’ vanity. But I do like this part:”
…the cause of your difference has not been any
of the leading doctrines or precepts of the Divine law, nor has any new heresy respecting the worship of God arisen among you. You are really of one and the same judgment.
“I wonder whether Ossius helped him write it,” Eusebius said. “Probably not—he would have edited some of the ‘trifling’ out.”
Arius nodded. “I agree that it puts pressure on Alexander. But I don’t see it changing their position. Sylvester sought a compromise two years ago and didn’t get one. I doubt Constantine will now.”
“Agreed. As I said, Athanasius will not like this. It will make him even more strident. I have talked to most of the bishops. They are inclined to our position but feel pressure from Athanasius. He’s threatened to include them among those to be excommunicated by Alexander.”
“Would Constantine issue an edict commanding the Church to follow our position—and the teachings of the early gospels?”
“No, not a chance. He’s quick to anger at suggestions like that. And I get nervous when he gets angry.”
“He doesn’t like being asked to make edicts?”
“He doesn’t like being asked to resolve the Church’s problems.” Eusebius responded. “His goal is stability in the Empire, which he believes is aided by a single Orthodox Church. If that orthodoxy is different than what he, you or I believe in, he expects us to adapt. It is simple for him. More difficult for us.”
“So who decides what’s orthodox?” Arius asked. “I’ve seen in other letters mention of another Synod—which Alexander has called for in January in Antioch. We haven’t been invited. Nor has anyone sympathetic to our position. I hope Constantine will not let Athanasius’ hand-picked friends decide the direction of the Church.”
“He won’t. He knows that the Antioch Synod is going to be a one-sided affair. But I am not sure how he will have us determine the proper direction.”
“I’ve asked this before—but can Ossius help our cause?” Arius asked, sipping some wine.
“As we’ve discussed, Ossius has become Constantine’s personal confessor. His interests are too close to Constantine’s. With most of the Eastern bishops against us, Ossius would make the political decision. Not the theological one. So, no—he wouldn’t help us.”
“What about Pope Sylvester?”
Eusebius thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Sylvester could change the entire argument, if he chose to. But, like Ossius, he’s close to Constantine. He views this as a distraction from the Church’s real business—of being everyone’s parish priest.”
Arius smiled ruefully. “So, we’ve advanced our cause little over the last few years. Other than with the plebeians. I wish I’d been able to convince the Church that Jesus preached as his Father directed. That He was divine—but begotten by the Father. I failed in exactly the area God best equipped me.”
“This world is not an easy place, Arius. And God didn’t design it to be so. He does not judge us by worldly achievements. He judges us by our hearts, efforts and love. If our efforts are sincere and moral—following the example Jesus gave us—God will grace us. If they are not, he may not. As I have said so many times, Arius, God’s only promise to us is eternal life. Nothing else.”
Antioch, Asia Minor
January, 1078 AUC (325 AD)
Ossius was tired. Alone in the Council’s meeting room, he’d finally finished his notes and was slowly packing his scrolls in a wooden bucket at the head table. The Synod was ending—and it had gone exactly as he’d anticipated. Almost 100 bishops and priests from throughout the Eastern Empire described Arius as a traitor. Apostate. Heretic. And worse.
Athanasius had orchestrated the entire thing.
Alexander didn’t attend the meeting. He’d taken ill. Ossius had visited him in Alexandria, before continuing on to Antioch. Alexander didn’t seem particularly sick. But he did seem frail.
Before Ossius finished gathering his papers and notes, Athanasius came back into the room: “Bishop, I could not help but notice that the creed you shared with us did not include the wording I suggested. Specifically, you left out ‘homoousian’ in describing the nature between Jesus and God.”
Ossius stared at Athanasius for a moment—until the younger man looked away—and then responded: “Alexander and I discussed the creed. We both approved the wording. We agree that the purpose of the creed is to establish the basis of belief necessary to be a Christian.”
Athanasius looked confused.
“The basis, Athanasius. Not the fine details. Now, you’re correct. We haven’t included any descriptive wording concerning the exact nature of Jesus and God. It’s not necessary. Our faith demands that Jesus was begotten by God. That’s the important thing.”
Athanasius seethed: “You must tighten that wording to include the exact nature of our Lord and His Father. Otherwise, those whom we rightly criticized during the Synod will undoubtedly establish themselves as Christians—in spite of the fact that they are heretics!”
“Perhaps that isn’t a bad thing, Athanasius. Allowing some room for minor differences follows the recommendations in our Emperor’s letter on this matter.”
“The Emperor’s recommendations are appreciated, Ossius. But a council of learned men, such as this Synod, should make an independent decision about the criteria necessary to be a Christian. Those criteria must include the belief that Jesus is, in every way, identical in nature with God. Otherwise, we diminish the glory God bestowed upon us.”
Ossius chuckled, with a touch of menace, and then responded: “We’ll see what wording the next, broader council agrees upon.”
Ossius had finished packing his things. He took the bucket and starting to walk out.
“Ossius, one moment—” Athanasius had changed his tone. He sounded more plaintive. Perhaps he realized he’d approached the subject too aggressively. “I have just one more question.”
Ossius, now by the doorway, turned back. “Yes?”
“I have given thought to a new Bible. A New Testament Bible. I think we need to develop it as canon as soon as possible.”
Ossius stared again at the younger priest. Athanasius was full of schemes—and every suggestion he made had multiple meanings. Why was he shifting suddenly from the proposed creed to the new Bible? “I agree. But I’m not sure of how quickly we can do it. First, we need to agree on which scriptures are worthy of being included.”
“I would like to present my ideas for the new Bible at that next, broader council you mention. We should include no more than 25 of the scriptures with which we are all familiar. One synoptic gospel. John’s Gospel. Thomas’ Gospel. Paul’s letters, of course. Peter’s letters. Revelation.”
It was an interesting subject. And Athanasius was playing the part of the brilliant student, courting the favor of his teacher. Ossius cautioned himself about giving in to his vanity. But it was an interesting subject.
“Why would you leave out two of the synoptic Gospels, Athanasius? And which ones?”
“I would leave out Mark and Luke,” Athanasius answered. He was a more confident again. “They are so similar, they’re redundant.”
“I’d find it disturbing to leave out their testimony,” Ossius said. “And I would be suspect of Thomas’ Gospel and the Book of Revelation. Both have the potential for Gnostic interpretation and could mislead Christians that there is a secret way to Heaven—one that the clever might learn, rather than just following Jesus’ teachings and God’s grace.”
“I am not adamant about excluding the synoptic gospels. But, at a minimum, Revelation must be included. And Thomas’ Gospel reflects the actual words of Jesus,” Athanasius smirked mischievously. He was enjoying this. “I wouldn’t shrink from including works that may confuse or mislead the less informed. That’s why you have learned church fathers.”
“Priests and bishops should be tending to their parishes, not explaining confusing scriptures.” Ossius was getting tired of thi
s discussion.
“Then we should restrict most of Paul’s writing. He often goes on tangents that don’t apply to, well, anything.”
“I disagree. Paul was our original priest, the standard that we should all attempt to emulate,” Ossius responded.
“I view Jesus as that example,” Athanasius said in a rushed voice. He’d been waiting to say that. “This is the kind of discussion the broader council should have.”
“As I said earlier, Athanasius, we need to develop a new Bible. But I think the complexity of its contents would likely consume more time than we have—as our brief conversation here has demonstrated. Let’s make our decision about the creed first. Then we can grapple with the new Bible.”
As Ossius left the meeting hall, Athanasius stepped toward him—but then hesitated and turned away. It was a nervous, fidgety maneuver.
Sirmium, Pannonia
Late January, 1078 AUC (325 AD)
Ossius arrived at Sirmium, having ridden directly from the Synod in Antioch. After some searching, he found Constantine at the city’s hippodrome, testing his chariot racing skills against his original four palatini. The professional teams were not racing that day, so there were only a few pleasantly surprised citizens watching.
Chariot racing was the most popular spectator sport in the Roman Empire. Fans of the four major syndicates—known as the Red, White, Blue and Green Factions—spent substantial amounts of time and money to watch their favorite riders compete.
It was a dangerous sport. A rider’s only protection was a leather helmet and vest; and he would balance precariously over the axel of a light, stripped-down version of a military chariot. A standard racing team was four horses, usually owned either by the Faction or a wealthy backer. In order to maintain control, the rider would wrap the reins of the lead horse tightly around his wrist, which often meant being dragged for hundreds of yards when an accident occurred. Which was often. And often fatal.
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