Imperator, Deus

by John R. Prann Jr.

  Outside in the bright afternoon sun, both Eusebiuses caught up to Arius at the same time. “My good friend,” the Nicomedian started, “you are honest. Brutally so. I do not recommend a career in politics.”

  Arius, who had been walking to his room to get away from Council, laughed with some effort. “I apologize to you. To both of you. I have let you both down. I have let God down—by representing my opinions as I see them, rather than saying what needed to be said.”

  “You are only guilty of being human, Arius,” laughed Eusebius of Caesarea.

  The Nicomedian agreed. “Other than your opinions on Hell, everything you said was correct—as taught to us by Lucian so many years ago. But it is not what is accepted by today’s Church. What Alexander is demanding is strict adherence to a new orthodoxy, not a debate.”

  “Though we know it’s not Alexander who’s pressing that rigid orthodoxy,” the Caesarean added.

  “Indeed not. But we know the Nazarene’s teachings, His questioning, His acceptance to all walks of life. His forgiveness will be secondary to the method and manner in which we now must beseech Him,” the Nicomedian said. All three echoed the last few words—which had been a favorite saying of their old teacher Lucian.

  “Now that I have discredited our position, what will be the Council’s next steps?” Arius asked.

  The Nicomedian answered. “Ossius will talk to Constantine this afternoon and tomorrow morning. I suspect that the Emperor wants a resolution to this debate.”

  “You can see his frustration growing deeper every day he’s here. He’d rather be killing barbarians or spending time with his young wife,” the Caesarean said, smiling mischievously.

  The Nicomedian laughed and then summed up their position. “His impatience for resolution favors orthodoxy. Rigidity has the advantage of being simple. Alexander will get most of what he wants. But I will try to make sure he doesn’t get everything. And Ossius will move the Council on to the Creed, the only remaining item.”

  Nicaea, Asia Minor

  July 15, 1078 AUC (325 AD)

  In Constantine’s private quarters, the Emperor, Ossius and Eusebius of Nicomedia were discussing the Council’s next steps. Or, rather, Ossius and Eusebius were listening to the Emperor discuss them: “Cousin, the debate is over. Arius seems like a devoted priest but his beliefs about the nature of Jesus and God, and now Satan, are clearly out of step with the majority of the Council. I thought they were going to stone him yesterday. There is no way you can combine his views with the mainstream elements of the Church.”

  “But the Council is wrong—its conclusions are wrong. Arius is right about the early scriptures.”

  Ossius put a hand lightly on Eusebius’ shoulder. “I agree with the Emperor, Eusebius. Dragging the debate on will only worsen the Council’s discord. You’re right that Alexander isn’t making a much better case. But he has the majority on his side. And Arius will become only more of a scapegoat if he keeps making provocative arguments. We must move on to the final draft of the Creed.”

  Eusebius knew it was time to yield the point. But he decided to make one final appeal. “There are many within the Council who agree with Arius. They are the quiet ones—not the ones making vocal outbursts. If we don’t reach some compromise, the losing group will be a constant division within the Church.”

  “I hope you aren’t including yourself in that number,” Constantine warned with a rising anger. “I am sick and tired of this whole debate. Those who don’t follow the Church’s doctrine will no longer be part of the Church and if I decide they threaten the Church, they will not live to do any damage.”

  Ossius interjected, fearing another debate would erupt, or worse. “Eusebius, how can there be compromise on this issue? What would it be? God and Jesus are either the same or they are not. They cannot be partly the same.”

  “God defies man’s understanding. He exists beyond our sense of reason.” Eusebius was quoting another of old Lucian’s sayings. But, this time, there was no one to understand the reference.

  “Eusebius, you can’t build a Church on abstractions and philosophical epigrams. This has gone long enough, I have made the decision and this is what we will follow, do you understand.” Constantine said in considerable anger directed at his cousin.

  Eusebius turned his palms up and nodded to Constantine.

  “Yes Cousin, you are undoubtedly right.”

  Ossius walked toward Constantine—so that he was literally standing with the Emperor. “More important, to the future of the Church, if a bishop or priest is so adamant in his disagreement that he would undermine doctrine, he cannot be part of that Church. He must be excommunicated.” Trying to soften Constantine’s earlier death threat.

  Eusebius smiled ruefully. “Ossius, I understand. You sound, however, like Alexander’s deacon.”

  “Those two hold no favor with me,” Ossius said. “But we must do what is best for the Church. Long after memories of this Council have faded, our successors will agree that finding Jesus and God of the same nature is the strongest and clearest doctrinal conclusion.”

  Nicaea, Asia Minor

  July 22, 1078 AUC (325 AD)

  “Please, brothers, come to order!” Ossius implored from behind the podium.

  The Creed was supposed to take a few hours—it had taken almost a week. The bishops had been politicking and wordsmithing every phrase. While the nature of God and Jesus was unknowable, the wording of a prayer was something that every Council member knew well.

  To Constantine, the process was so boring that, after the second day, he’d joked to Quintus: “You should go out and start a war to get me away from out of this.” His main role in these weeks of mind-numbing argument had been to keep order. Which he did, once again. He stood. And a hush fell over the Council.

  Ossius nodded gratefully and read the final draft of the Creed.

  We believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of all things visible and invisible; And in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the Son of God, begotten from the Father, only-begotten, that is, from the substance of the Father, God from God, light from light, true God from true God, begotten not made, of one substance with the Father, through Whom all things came into being, things in heaven and things on earth, Who because of us men and because of our salvation came down, and became incarnate and became man, and suffered, and rose again on the third day, and ascended to the heavens, and will come to judge the living and dead, And in the Holy Spirit. But as for those who say, There was when He was not, and, Before being born He was not, and that He came into existence out of nothing, or who assert that the Son of God is of a different hypostasis or substance, or created, or is subject to alteration or change —these the catholic and apostolic Church anathematizes.

  There was a smattering of applause—but not as much as Ossius had expected. “Brothers, our scribes have distributed several copies of what I just read. Please review our final version. We will gather again tomorrow morning to sign the covenant. And then, in three days, we will have a brief closing ceremony. May God bless us all.”

  As Ossius left the hall, Eusebius of Nicomedia joined him to walk toward the courtyard entrance.

  “Ossius, I intend to sign this Nicene Creed for continuity of our faith. And in deference to Constantine. But I fear that others—Arius and perhaps Secundus and Theonus—may not. I have told them that they will likely be excommunicated. Is there anything we can offer them to encourage their agreement?”

  Ossius rolled his eyes. “Eusebius, this isn’t politics. I don’t have anything to offer. They will be excommunicated and exiled if they don’t sign. That’s all.”

  “Where might they be exiled?”

  “I haven’t given the matter any thought. If I recall correctly, the three you mention are all from the African coast, near Libya. So we won’t want them there. Too much opportunity for causing unrest. Perhaps Syria? No. Illyria mi
ght work.”

  “Yes. I know some patrons in Illyria that might accommodate them as guests. I would assume that they would be free to travel—as long as they were not to attend religious events?”

  “Is this a negotiation, Eusebius?”

  “Well, it isn’t politics. Will you confirm this matter with Constantine?” Eusebius answered.

  “I will mention it next time I see him.”

  After the signing of the Nicene Creed, Constantine issued a formal proclamation. Sent to all cities, townships and Churches throughout the Empire, he announced that the First Ecumenical Council in Nicaea had agreed to a Creed. His proclamation included the full text of the new prayer.

  The proclamation went on to state that all Christians who did not pledge the Creed were to be exiled and excommunicated.

  Finally, the proclamation stated that Arius of Alexandria, Secundus of Ptolemais and Theonus of Marmarica were all excommunicated and exiled to Illyria. All letters, verses or other literary works of Arius of Alexandria were to be consumed by fire. Possession of Arius’ work was punishable by death.

  Near Byzantium

  December 31, 1078 AUC (326 AD)

  The Christmas Holidays—between the winter solstice and Julian calendar New Year—were a mix of pagan-worship frivolities and the more serious but no less joyous celebration of Christ’s birth. The New Year was a celebration of the two faced god, Janus. One face looked back at the past, the other forward to the future.

  Constantine had his entire family in the partially-constructed Imperial Palace in the rapidly-growing “New Rome” section of Byzantium. They were having very good Spanish wine and eating honey figs, fruit and cheese when Eusebius of Nicomedia joined the family in the early evening.

  Constantine had exiled his cousin to Gaul three months earlier, over the Creed matter. Eusebius had written almost immediately, asking for an audience around the holidays.

  As usual, Helena made a commotion over him. Constantine’s children were also happy to see their cousin. Eusebius had tutored most of them at one point or another. And Eusebius was still very close to Constantia, who was also with the family—but still in mourning after her husband’s and son’s execution.

  Constantine walked Eusebius around the living quarters.

  “Eusebius, you remember Crispus. And his wife Helena. I have no idea where their boy is.”

  “Crispus! It has been a long time. You should be proud—your reputation is outstanding.” Eusebius said, shaking Crispus’ arm warmly.

  “Thank you, cousin. It is good to see you again.”

  They walked on, toward a balcony near the back of the house that had a spectacular view. There, they found Fausta, leaning against the railing. Eusebius hugged her and wished her a happy Christmas— and that he remember how well she liked the winter holidays. “How are you doing?”

  “Better now. Just needed some air. I’ve been a little ill.”

  “She always feels ill in the early stages,” Constantine added. “When she’s closer, she feels fine.”

  Eusebius looked at Fausta, who nodded.

  “My God! Congratulations, Fausta! This will be five? Stunning. You’re increasing the population of the Roman Empire singlehandedly!”

  “Well, not quite single-handedly. I’m going back in again, before I get a chill.” She hugged Constantine and grabbed his shoulder in a way that conveyed genuine intimacy. Eusebius blanched a bit at that small point. “I’ll leave you two out here to talk and enjoy this view. But don’t stay away from us for too long.” She said as she left.

  When Fausta had gone back inside, Constantine took a deep breath and cleared his head of the wine’s effect. Eusebius clearly wanted to speak of serious matters. For the moment, he seemed to be willing to look out at the city and port below. So, Constantine started the conversation: “I thought you were going to Sirmium to see your Mother?”

  “I am. But I wanted to come here first to speak with you. About exiling me. And then I’ll go see her.”

  “Don’t complain, Eusebius. It’s only been a few months. And Gaul is beautiful in the fall. I told you we needed to make it clear that the orthodox doctrine will prevail—but you kept pushing against it. So, we made an example of you. No one’s above the law, not even the Emperor’s cousin. Some of the other dissenters may not make it to next year’s Christmas Holiday, I am tired of this discord.”

  They stood next to each other in silence for a few moments as Constantine cooled down. Then Constantine asked: “Have you heard that our old friend, Alexander of Alexandria, passed away? The day before Christmas?”

  “No! God bless his soul. Who are the bishops going to choose as his successor?”

  Constantine smiled, wearily. “Before he died, old Alexander sent a letter to his neighbors in the East, choosing Athanasius. And Athanasius quickly had three local bishops publicly support him. Mutatis mutandis,” Constantine said. “He is young for that position, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. He’s young—either 27 or 28. And our custom has been that no one should become a bishop before they’re 30. Or 35, preferably,” Eusebius responded. He was genuinely concerned at this news and wondered who actually wrote Alexander’s letter of recommendation.

  “Well, he is a pious man. Fervently pious,” Constantine shrugged.

  “Yes. Pious.” Eusebius had a vision of decades of holy wars within the Church. It made his stomach clench up. “But I’m not certain that pious is always what the Church needs.”

  “I see your point, I think,” Constantine said. “We should go back inside. If there’s more you’d like to discuss, let’s talk in the morning.”

  As the night progressed and the good wine flowed, Helena recounted to Eusebius her plans to leave for another trip to the Holy Land with Gaius as her bodyguard in a matter of months.

  Fausta held court about many things, related to their plans for the remaining days before the New Year. Different groups of visitors were coming every day. She made sarcastic remarks to everyone—but picked on Crispus, especially.

  This was a familiar pattern. At 36, she was only eight years older than her stepson. Yet their relationship had always been awkward. No one in the family paid much attention to their bickering.

  After midnight, Eusebius said good night—and Fausta and Crispus were the only ones still awake. They wandered lazily toward their respective bedrooms.

  Crispus made a joking remark about Fausta’s clumsiness and expanding waist. “Every time I see you now, you’re getting larger. And larger. Soon we’ll have to get the construction people in here just to widen the doorways for you.”

  Fausta attempted to push Crispus in mock anger. But stumbled slightly and fell into Crispus’ arms. Locked together, face-to-face, they kissed.

  “Oh my God,” whispered Crispus. “This is the stupidest thing….”

  “Yes,” agreed Fausta, as she pulled away from Crispus and got her bearings again. Then she whispered, “Too bad we both liked it.”

  They turned away from each other and went into their respective rooms, where their spouses were sleeping.

  At the end of the hallway, Aelius had been quietly walking through the living quarters to evaluate what would need to be cleaned up first in the morning. He was used to seeing things he’d wished he had not. But this was the worst thing he’d ever seen.

  Near Byzantium

  April 15, 1079 AUC (326 AD)

  Adiutor Aelius was extremely agitated, pacing in the kitchen of the Imperial Palace.

  It was early in the morning, but he hadn’t slept all night and he had no idea what to do.

  During his rounds the night before, he’d realized Crispus was not in his quarters—his door was left slightly ajar. Later, he had seen Crispus cross the hallway leaving the Empress’ room and go back into his own. Aelius had been watching Crispus and Fausta since he’d seen them together aro
und the New Year. Their growing attraction was obvious to him but seemed invisible to the rest of the family.

  He feared more than liked both Crispus and Fausta. He was not particularly close to either. And he didn’t feel the loyalty to either of them that he felt to the Emperor.

  Crispus’ wife and child were visiting her family in Gaul. They would be gone for weeks, if not months. The Emperor was away, somewhere, on business. He was due back soon. Aelius decided to wait and tell the Emperor what he’d seen.

  Or maybe he’d just keep quiet about the whole thing, His success as one of Constantine’s trusted Adiutors was based on his discretion about family secrets. Maybe this was just one more matter that called for discretion.

  This agitation was beginning to affect his work. He was snapping at other Palace workers and beginning to miss minor details.

  Near Byzantium

  May 25, 1079 AUC (326 AD)

  Constantine got on his horse in the courtyard of his new Imperial Palace and waved to his seven-months-pregnant wife. “I should be back tomorrow night. I regret that I have to go to Nicomedia. But the plans for the 20th anniversary of the Milvian Bridge victory parade in Rome are…pressing.”

  “Not a problem, my love. I’ll be fine.”

  As Constantine and his entourage went through the new gate through the walls of the city, he saw Crispus in a nearby field practicing with his trainers. He waved to him as well.

  Crispus had returned from Gaul just two days earlier and was still adjusting back into city living.

  Constantine rode south for about an hour. Rather than crossing the Bosporus straight into Nicomedia, he and guards stopped at a small waterfront town and had a leisurely lunch. Then they rode a short distance and he stopped the group and ordered everyone to make camp for the evening. As dusk approached, he called his four original palatini to walk with him along the water’s edge.

  “Quintus, you and I will leave alone this evening. The rest of you are to stay here until morning. At daybreak, I want the three of you to bring the others back to the Palace.”