Imperator, Deus

by John R. Prann Jr.

  Constantine and his palatini were all proficient charioteers—but not as good as the professional riders employed by the Factions. Constantine had beaten Appius and Sevius but was in the process of losing to Titus.

  Quintus, still injured, watched from the first row of the Stadium, next to the entrance to the stables. Ossius joined him there.

  “How does the racing go, soldier?”

  “Well enough for enthusiastic amateurs, our Priest.”

  Titus seemed to let up at the end of their race, as if to let the Emperor win. But he still ended up winning by a solid chariot-length. After the race, Constantine rode toward the stable chute; he waved to Ossius, sitting next to Quintus, as he passed.

  Appius and Sevius were standing on the track directly in front of them. Titus stopped in front of them and climbed off of his racer. Appius couldn’t wait to get in the first word in: “Titus, my former friend! I look forward to your promotion to the front line of our next battle.”

  Titus grunted and rubbed his wrist—which had deep rein marks. “If your mouth hasn’t gotten you to the front line in all these years, then one chariot race isn’t going to do anything.”

  Constantine jogged out from the stables. “I had a line to get in front of you, Titus. But you closed it by cutting so close to the Turning Post Pillars. I thought you were going to hit one of them! Very nice job.”

  “Dominus, as a token of my accomplishment, may I cut Appius’ viper tongue out of his head?”

  “No. But, if you beat him in a three-lap race, I will order him not to talk for an entire day.”

  Appius snatched the reins hanging over Titus’ shoulder. “Bet on! I will defeat Titus and talk only to him for 24 hours straight. But I want fresh horses for both of us.”

  “Done!” snapped Titus competitively. And the two guards led the horses to the stables.

  Constantine walked up the steps to sit next to Ossius, greeting him warmly. Sensing a private conversation between the Emperor and the bishop, Quintus got up and walked with Sevius a few cubits around the track. But they kept Constantine in their sight.

  “So, how was your trip to Antioch?”

  “Imperator, I don’t believe we will get a compromise from Athanasius. This synod was overwhelmingly partisan, as we suspected it would be. They want to excommunicate anyone who does not adhere to their concept of the nature of Jesus and God. Unrelenting. Of course, I’m sure that if I attended a Synod hosted by Arius the attitudes would be the same—from the contrary perspective.”

  Constantine pulled the towel draped around his neck over his head and dried his closely-cropped hair. Then he leaned back in his seat and looked up at the sky. “So much for the Christian concepts of tolerance and understanding!”

  “Did you get my letter about meeting with Alexander before the Synod, Augustus?”

  “Yes. And I read it. It will be a sad day when that old bird flies off to heaven.”

  Ossius nodded in contentment. “My conversations with him were revealing. We put together the draft of a Christian Creed quite easily. He obviously wanted his most important points to be included—but he was completely willing to leave room in wording designed for the followers of Arius.”

  “Good.”

  Now, Ossius shook his head. “Not so good. His deacon, Athanasius, was not so accepting and approached me after the Synod. He was critical of the omission of the word that ties the nature of Jesus and God as the same, ‘homoousian.’ It’s evident that he will not agree to anything less than that word being included in the Creed.”

  Constantine scowled. “Why do you worry about the opinion of a deacon?”

  Ossius nodded, seeing in the Emperor’s reaction how Church politics seemed to an outsider. “I suppose to call him a ‘deacon’ isn’t right. He’s more than that. Alexander is an old man in poor health. Athanasius has been his secretary for over a decade. And my impression is that he acting as de facto Bishop. Which, in this case, means de facto Eastern Pope.”

  “Yes. Of course. These administrators…bureaucrats. So helpful. So willing to assume power by proxy.”

  Ossius knew this was a point of pride for Constantine. Unlike other generals—and certainly other emperors—he had never relied on a single, trusted scribe. Constantine read correspondence and wrote most of his own responses. As Emperor, the writing was so great that he had to rely on some clerks. But he rotated them regularly. Never became too reliant on any single one.

  “By the way, Athanasius believes that Christians need a formal Bible. He’s insistent that we need to develop one soon. So, on that point at least, you and he are in agreement.”

  Constantine laughed. “Well, good. We look for our points of common ground, eh? But the point of your meeting Antioch was not a new Book. It was this debate over ‘homoousian.’” He over enunciated the word, to mock it. “And you really had only one army on the field there. Have the Western bishops developed any interest in this issue?”

  “No. None. Sylvester writes me occasionally for updates. But, in general, he would like it to be over.”

  “And you know, Ossius that I agree with him on this.”

  “I know that, Dominus.”

  Constantine stood up and yelled a vulgar encouragement to Titus and Appius, who were positioning their chariots to start their race.

  He was, at his core, a soldier.

  When he sat again, he returned quickly to the subject of their conversation. “If the Western bishops were involved, would that change the direction of the debate?”

  He’d asked this question before. Which meant he hadn’t liked Ossius’ previous answers.

  Ossius sighed. “Possibly. But most of them consider it an intellectual matter with little practical meaning. If they were involved, they might argue that we are fixating on the something that has little to do with what Jesus taught—the same point you made in your letter. But these are bishops and priests, not generals. Confrontation is not part of their personalities.”

  After a lot of preparation, Titus and Appius were finally ready at the starting gate. And Ossius could see Constantine’s interest in the theological debate waning.

  “This controversy has gone on long enough, Ossius. Let’s arrange a meeting of all the bishops—Western and Eastern—to decide this matter once and for all. And any other major theological questions that affect the Church’s work. I will underwrite the cost. And we will all follow its conclusions.”

  “We once discussed having such a Council in Ancyra in May, is that still your wish?”

  “No. We should have somewhere easier for the Western bishops to attend. Perhaps Nicaea. The central theater at the Palace there that can accommodate a large group. And the baths are well done.”

  “Yes, Imperator. And shall we include creating a New Testament Bible as part of that Council?”

  “Seems like a good idea. Why do you ask in a doubtful tone?” Ossius shrugged. “The Book will be a debate unto itself. For example, in our brief discussion, Athanasius suggested two scriptures that he favors to be included. And, if we have discussions on those, the Council will never come to any conclusions.”

  “Which scriptures?”

  “Thomas’ Gospel and the Book of Revelation. Both have potential for Gnostic interpretation.”

  Constantine cocked his head. “There are mystical elements in all of the scriptures.”

  “It’s more than that, Imperator. The Gnostics believe that there are clues in the scriptures to guide them to salvation. The rest of us believe that salvation comes from the grace of God, through worship and living by the teachings of Jesus. But many of our bishops in the East—especially in Egypt—have Gnostic beliefs.”

  “This is why you need someone above the bishops, Ossius. You have hundreds of fiefdoms; you need a single kingdom,” Constantine stood again, to watch the race. “You should at least broach the subject of a ne
w Bible and start the process during this Council.”

  “Yes. We could start the process. Over time, we could weed out the texts that don’t conform. Eusebius of Caesarea might be the best person to put in charge of this.”

  “You know better than I, since you know who you are dealing with. But let’s get it started.” And then Constantine turned back to make eye contact, “And make sure Sylvester is there. We’ll need some sense in that Council.”

  Ossius laughed. “I’ll convey your message. But I strongly doubt he will attend.”

  “Why not? Can’t be health. He will outlive me!”

  “Just conjecture on my part, Augustus, that this is not Pope Sylvester’s kind of Council….”

  But Constantine was no longer listening. Ossius stood up with him to see Titus get a jump on Appius out of the gatehouse—a lead he never gave up.

  Nicaea, Asia Minor

  June 19, 1078 AUC (325 AD)

  Constantine followed the bishops into the immense general hall. He wore an imperial purple tunic trimmed with gold thread. And a golden wreath meant to look like laurel above his ears. It was extravagant for his taste—the wreath, especially, seemed like a barbarian’s crown. But he’d accepted the ostentatious outfit as a part of being Emperor. There was no mistaking that he was the most powerful man in the Roman Empire. And people would be confused or disappointed if he dressed like a soldier. Or even a general.

  The hall was a huge covered building of stone and brick, with open sides and massive columns supporting the arched roof. There was bench seating for all. The more important dignitaries sat up front, close to the center podium.

  His chair faced the crowd, behind and to one side of the podium. But he didn’t sit right away. He was giving the welcoming remarks. “My fellow servants of Christ….”

  He spoke to almost 250 bishops, plus attendant priests and deacons sitting in raised pews to the sides and back. He looked occasionally at a small page of notes that he’d hidden in one of his sleeves. His brief welcome was essentially the same text as the letter he’d sent the bishops some months earlier—minus the reference to their “trifling issue.”

  The politics here among the priests were almost as tense as any meeting in the Senate. Ossius was the chairman of the assembly, which helped. Prior to the grand entrance, Constantine had kissed the cheek of a bishop from the East who’d lost an eye during the persecutions. The priests knew, intellectually, that he was responsible for the new acceptance of Christianity and for the multitude of new churches being built. “But this gesture will underscore your good works on an emotional level,” Ossius had suggested. And Constantine had seen the wisdom in it.

  “Now, I turn the podium over to your learned brother— Eusebius, Bishop of Nicomedia—who will make some… introductory remarks. And later, Bishop Ossius will explain our agenda for the next few days. May God guide us to sound conclusions in this important work.”

  The Nicomedian approached the podium and made a very slight bow—a nod, really—and then pulled a larger set of notes from the sleeve of his tunic.

  Constantine took his seat. Ossius and some of the more influential bishops sat nearby, but not close. The Emperor felt very much on display. So, he made a point to appear attentive to his cousin’s remarks. But his mind drifted at several points. Try as he might, he could not muster much interest in these abstract points of theology.

  After all the opening ceremonies ended, Arius, Eusebius of Nicomedia and Eusebius of Caesarea walked leisurely toward the baths.

  “A good summary speech, my friend,” The Caesarean said to the Nicomedian. “Although your partiality toward our cause was evident.”

  “Thank you.” Eusebius was accustomed to compliments about his speeches or sermons—and he’d learned to answer praise with praise. “To return the compliment, I read the draft of the Creed you have developing with Ossius. It’s very good. A bit stricter than I would like but, with minor revisions, I think this Council will approve it. And that will be an impressive accomplishment.”

  Arius scoffed. “Their work is fine. Very good, as you say. But don’t count on anything from our camp being accepted by Alexander’s camp. Athanasius has been preaching about the faults of the draft Creed to anyone who will listen. So expect changes. Lots of changes. By the way, my Caesarean friend, I saw you deep in conversation with Ossius and then Constantine joined the two of you. What was that about?”

  The Caesarean shrugged. “Ossius wrote me some months ago, about developing criteria for a New Testament Bible. He wants to start a process of weeding out the questionable texts and those that don’t reflect our true faith. He discussed that with me again today, indicating that Deacon Athanasius also has an interest—but favors some texts that may be problematic.”

  “Which ones, problematic?”

  “Well, two that Ossius mentioned are the Gospel of Thomas and the Book of Revelation.”

  Arius seemed more enthusiastic about the New Testament than he’d been about the draft Creed. “A very good idea. And I agree about Thomas and Revelation—they’re Gnostic and apocalyptic. Don’t reflect the basis of our faith.”

  They walked a few steps in silence. Then Arius asked a question that had just occurred to him: “What was Constantine’s interest in this new Bible?”

  “Constantine wants 50 copies of the complete Bible, Old and New Testament, for his churches in the New Rome,” Caesarea replied. “He wants me to include the Scriptures I feel most deserving for the New Testament.. Which will be those Origen recommended—probably minus Revelation.”

  “Agreed,” Arius grunted. “Again, Revelation promotes mysticism. Not much different than sorcery and paganism. For that matter, I don’t think John’s Gospel should be included. Same reason.”

  “Hmm,” the Nicomedian interjected—to contradict. “Revelation may not be worthy of inclusion in this New Testament. But the popularity of John’s Gospel will require its inclusion.”

  “Yes,” the Caesarean was siding with his counterpart. “Even Irenaeus, who only wanted the four Gospels as the New Testament, included John.”

  “You may have to include Revelation since Origen thought it should be part our sacred texts and included in a New Testament. In addition since Athanasius thinks it should be included, there are undoubtedly others that might dictate it being included. Plus, as we all suspect, the Gospel of John, the Epistles of John and Revelation were probably written by the same author. So maybe they all should be included in the New Testament. This assignment is truly an honor for you, my friend,” the Nicomedian said. “I am very impressed. I hope that Emperor plans to pay you for all your effort.”

  The Caesarean blushed noticeably. “In a…manner of…speaking. Constantine is going to help pay for expanding our library. Which I very much appreciate.”

  “Well, you are full of surprises!” Arius exclaimed. “I am impressed too!”

  The Caesarean tried to change the subject: “Do you have any idea how many bishops here may be aligned to our beliefs?”

  “I counted 22,” Nicomedia answered, precisely. “But I know of at least 30 more that have told me they would join us if we find a way to minimize Athanasius’ intimidation. And those 30 speak for others. Only six bishops are from the Western Empire.”

  Arius groaned. “Only six! Let’s see: 22 and 30 and maybe 30 more. Even with all of those, we don’t have a majority. Not close. Perhaps we should concentrate our efforts on acceptable wording for the Creed.”

  “Don’t think of the Creed as a consolation for losing the bigger question,” the Caesarean chided the others. “It’s a separate issue. What’s important is that we expand our base within this Council—50 or even 85 won’t be enough for us to negotiate on even footing.”

  “It’s true. Our present numbers don’t bode well,” Arius said, again in a grunting voice. “It’s too bad Sylvester isn’t here. He could change the dynamic of t
his Council entirely.”

  “And that’s the reason he, and the rest of the Western Bishops, chose not to come. It’s not his controversy to resolve,” answered the Nicomedian. “That practical reasoning is why the Emperor likes him so well.”

  Nicaea, Asia Minor

  June 29, 1078 AUC (325 AD)

  Ossius’ mind drifted while one of the Syrian bishops argued that it was time to separate from the Jewish calendar for the calculation of the Easter celebration to make it independent of any Jewish celebration.

  Keeping the bishops on point was proving to be difficult. Each wanted to demonstrate how much he knew. And each was used to being listened to. The first day, it had been chaos. They showed little respect for his instructions—that each speaker had to be identified first and then was to address all comments to the Chair. Very quickly, Ossius had lost control of the hall. Chatter rose from all sides.

  And Constantine had to take charge. “Citizens! Citizens! Reverend Bishops! We must have order! Order! Thank you. We have so much to do. We must not waste each other’s time. When the floor is open for comments, please speak one at a time. Ossius of Cordova is your Chairman. He will recognize each speaker first. And then you must direct your comments to the Chair. Not to one another.”

  Ossius noticed that Constantine’s voice wasn’t as deep or melodious as many of the bishops’ voices. But the Emperor was used to seizing and keeping authority. He had no trouble quieting the room. In the days since, Constantine had been present every day— but usually only for an hour or so each morning. To see that order was maintained.

  After 10 days, the only substantive issue they had resolved was the so-called “Meletian conflict.” Meletius, an Egyptian bishop, wanted The Church to enforce a penalty for repentant Christians who had returned to the faith after fleeing during the persecutions. His position was rejected and Meletius himself was reprimanded.

  Ossius snapped back to attention when an exchange between Nicholas of Myra and Arius grew heated.