Imperator, Deus

by John R. Prann Jr.

  Appius as always was the most vocal: “Imperator, please. Any time you go without us, you are at tremendous risk. Quintus—no disrespect for you, brother—is not as strong as he was before Chrysopolis. It is best that the three of us join you. We can leave instructions for the others.”

  “Appius, I have thought this through. This is the plan we will follow. Quintus and I will go alone.”

  “Imperator—”

  “Appius, no.”

  Constantine signaled for Quintus to prep their horses. They rode south, further away from Byzantium. Once out of sight—and certain they weren’t being followed—Constantine made a wide turn, back toward the city and rode. Without haste.

  When they re-entered through the same gate they’d passed through earlier that day, it was well after ten o’clock. But the gate passage was lighted with so many torches and lamps that it might have been noon. The Centurions standing watch were surprised to see Constantine again. One of the guards was about to sound the usual signal—but Constantine signaled for him to be silent.

  As they approached the Palace, Constantine got off his horse and handed the reins to Quintus. “Either Aelius or I will be back to get you. Until then, wait in silence.”

  Constantine strode through the courtyard quickly and quietly, signaling for silence to all that saw him. Entering the Palace, he found Aelius—who was visibly shaking—waiting in the main greeting room. Aelius started to block his approach to the living quarters…and then thought the better of it.

  Quietly walking toward his bedroom, Constantine picked up an oil lamp in the beginning of the hallway. The door to his bedroom was unlocked. Inside, he found his wife and his son in his bed. Crispus jumped out of the bed naked—and then fell awkwardly to the ground on one knee. Fausta started to whimper.

  Constantine felt his face flush. At the same time, he felt a wave of overpowering sadness—even more than when he’d lost Vibius. He felt his eyes tearing. “I had expected I might find…this. I am disgusted. I hope you found it worth it. Neither of you will ever see me again.”

  As he turned to leave, he stopped. Facing the door and without looking back, he said, “Is that my child you are carrying?” A teardrop fell, hitting the back of his outstretched hand on the door knob.

  “Yes.”

  “You are sure?”

  “I have only been with Crispus once since the holidays.”

  Crispus, gathering his clothes, muttered: “I am so, so sorry father.”

  Constantine wanted to respond but his throat was too tight for him to speak. All he could was sneer. And leave.

  He walked the halls for several minutes, trying to get control of himself. Finally, he came upon Aelius—still shaking—in the kitchen. “Aelius, how long have you known?”

  “Two months. But I only suspected, Imperator. Only suspected.”

  “Why didn’t you say something to me?” Constantine didn’t really care. He was looking for something to wipe his face—and eventually settled on a dishcloth.

  “I didn’t know for sure. And I was afraid.”

  Constantine wiped away his tears and sighed. “You actually did tell me, Aelius. You have been acting so strangely, particularly when they were together. It made me suspect. Quintus is in the street just outside the courtyard, have him bring in the horses. And both of you join me in my study.”

  Aelius walked quickly through the courtyard. He felt pain—but also relief that the burden of secrecy had been lifted.

  Near Byzantium

  May 26, 1079 AUC (326 AD)

  Before dawn, there was a knock on Crispus’ door.

  Four centurions walked in with a hood and iron manacles. Placing the thick canvas hood with eye slits over Crispus’ head, they locked the manacles in front of him so that he could ride. Fausta opened the door of her room, in time to see Crispus being escorted out.

  Before she could say anything, four other centurions approached her with the same hood and manacles.

  Pola, Istria

  May 30, 1079 AUC (326 AD)

  It had been a four-day ride to Pola. Each day a new set of centurions would relive the prior set.

  Crispus had not eaten by his choice. He was riddled with guilt, shame and was in disbelief at his stupidity. He looked forward to death, which he knew was coming. Throughout the trip, he had not spoken and he doubted—given the rotations—that these centurions had any idea who he was.

  Once in Pola, he was immediately brought before Magistrate Cato, Constantine’s senior judicial advisor.

  Opening the stiff linen scroll with the Emperor’s seal, Magistrate Cato looked at the hooded person in front of him. While reading, he motioned the guards to remove the hood. Looking up, he immediately recognized Crispus.

  He ordered the guards to stand outside the room and finished reading Constantine’s letter.

  “Son, you have been accused of Treason and Moral Turpitude. How do you plead?”

  “Guilty.”

  “These crimes are punishable by death. Are you aware of that?”

  “I am.”

  “Because you have pleaded guilty, the letter states you have a choice of means of death. What is your choice?”

  “Poison. But I am curious. What would my means of death be if I had pleaded not guilty?”

  “You would be beheaded,” Cato responded matter-of-factly. “Crispus, I know your father. There is some risk, but I can delay this proceeding. I can inquire to the accuracy of his request. He tends to anger quickly. I could try to wait for him to reconsider his decision.”

  “That would be a worthless exercise for both of us, Magistrate. My fate is sealed. My only request is that you include my regrets to my father for the pain I have caused him.”

  “I will include that in my response.”

  “Can we get this over with?”

  “Don’t you wish a last meal?” Cato asked.

  “No. I want this over as soon as possible.”

  “I will arrange for it shortly.”

  An hour later, in a small room adjacent to the court room, Crispus drank a large cup of a bitter-tasting Cherry Laurel. Shortly after drinking it, he started twitching. Soon after the twitching, he was unable to talk, experienced difficulty breathing and felt severe abdominal pain.

  Within 20 minutes, he was dead. His body was transported by ship and dropped into the Adriatic Sea.

  Trier, Rhineland

  July 2, 1079 AUC (326 AD)

  Fausta kept pushing, even though the midwife had told her to stop. She was tired of being captive—even in a palace. She wanted to have this child and escape. She had warned Constantine years ago about her father’s treachery—and Constantine was alive because of that warning.

  Infidelity wasn’t life-threatening. And it certainly wasn’t uncommon among Roman Empresses. He could have forgiven. But seeing Crispus leaving that morning and then living in this captivity had convinced her that he wouldn’t forgive.

  And that made her even angrier.

  She’d had time, more than a month, to plan an escape. With a trusted handmaid, she could get away from the centurions. She would switch clothing with one of the other handmaids—maybe a day or two after this child was born. It was just a few days on foot to the Rhineland frontier, where she could cross over to the unconquered Franks. Her father had lived there for a few years when she’d been a young girl. She was confident the plan would work.

  Finally, after another hour, a baby girl was born. The midwife said that the child resembled her grandmother Helena. But that impression might have been influenced by suggestion: Constantine had ordered the baby to be named Helena, if it was a girl.

  Fausta was bathed and slept fitfully through that first night, her new child by her side. And midwives watching.

  Trier, Rhineland

  July 3, 1079 AUC (326 AD)

  Fausta
was awaken early in the morning by her trusted handmaid, who tried to warn her that something was amiss. But by the time Fausta’s feet were on the ground, two large women—dressed as bathhouse attendants—entered the room.

  “Empress, the bath that you requested is ready.”

  “I did not request a bath. I have no desire for one. I just delivered my fifth child last night and want more rest.” As she snapped at the two women, she began to realize what was happening. And adjusted her tone. “I can barely move. Perhaps I can take a bath tomorrow. So, let us postpone this.”

  “I am sorry, Empress. You are going to have your bath now,” said the larger of the two women.

  Fausta tried to think of some way to stall: “Well, can you give me some time to get ready?”

  “No. You must come with us now,” the larger women replied. It was clearly a command.

  They were standing on either side of her. And they were so large that she couldn’t move anywhere but in between them. And they were already pressing toward her, squeezing her up from the bed.

  As the group walked toward the bathhouse adjacent to the middle of the palace, Fausta could see what she thought were two Imperial saddled horses. She thought one of them was Constantine’s. She screamed “Constantine!” so the whole palace might hear it.

  The smaller of the attendants simply responded, “He is not here.”

  Walking into the bathhouse, even the main pool room felt unusually hot. The boiler for the caldarium had been heated to a dangerous level. Fausta slowed down as her handmaid started to cry, behind her. As they approached the steaming caldarium, she turned and hugged her last friend—whose name she couldn’t even remember.

  Then, without a word, Fausta walked into the hot room.

  She thought that it was strange—women who didn’t want to be pregnant would often go into hot caldariums to lose their babies. She had a baby she wanted and was going into a hot caldarium to lose her own life.

  In less than an hour she was found dead in wooden stall by the small boiling pool.

  Constantine had both Crispus and Fausta “damnatio memoriae.” All records of their lives were destroyed including any public proclamations, statues or paintings.

  Constantinople

  May 2, 1089 AUC (336 AD)

  Alexander of Constantinople was in Friday morning prayers in the Hagia Irene, the main church in Constantinople, when he received the letter from Constantine. The Church was adjacent to the Imperial Palace and Constantine frequented it on a regular basis.

  Alexander had been given to the Church by his Italian parents over 90 years earlier. A devout Christian, he had once fasted for 20 days. Later, after moving to Greece and Asia Minor, he had gone four years without wearing clothes as a sign of his devotion to his faith.

  Constantine’s letter to Alexander was simple. Given the Synod of Tyre and Jerusalem a year earlier, it was time to accept Arius back into the Church with a celebration and communion this Sunday. Quoting from the Synod, Constantine wrote:

  “We believe that yourselves also, as if recovering the very members of your own body, will experience great joy and gladness, in acknowledging and recovering your own bowels, your own brethren and fathers; since not only the Presbyters, Arius and his fellows, are given back to you, but also the whole Christian people and the entire multitude, which on occasion of the aforesaid men have a long time been in dissension among you.”

  Alexander feelings could not be any more opposite than Constantine’s letter predicted.

  Constantine had changed significantly in the ten years since he’d ordered the death of his son and his wife. Some of the change became noticeable at the twentieth anniversary celebration of his triumph at the Milvian Bridge in Rome. Four months after Fausta’s death. The parade, the parties, the meetings were awkward, and Constantine was unprepared. He had taken his mother, Helena, to try to divert attention from his missing son and wife, but Romans would shout question as to their whereabouts. He was noticeably angry and often appeared confused. Helena handled her role perfectly but was still cool towards Constantine because of the death of her favorite grandchild. After the festivities he left Rome and never returned.

  From that point on he tended to listen to the last person talking rather than form his own opinions. His dress became more extravagant, as he favored more expensive and elaborate clothing. He’d taken to wearing a blond wig over his thinning hair. He no longer practiced martial arts with his palatini.

  In fact his original palatini were all dead. Constantine began to develop a deadly obsession after the Rome celebration. The hollowness of his earlier years was replaced with the twin cancers of paranoia and indecision. The paranoia was extreme and rampant. He feared, if his son’s and wife’s affair were known, it would expose the very core of his manhood. That he would be revealed as a fake, a charlatan, nothing more than another aging aristocratic cuckold. Anyone who might have any knowledge of what they had done, with the exceptions of Bishops, were slowly eliminated. Adiutor Aelius was the first to disappear, without a trace less than a year after Constantine’s son’s and wife’s death. Aelius had a sister who he was close to who was unexpectedly murdered in a market by an unknown assailant several months later. Almost every servant in the new residence in Constantinople had died of some fatal encounter in the five years after their deaths.

  Even his original palatini appeared targeted.

  Quintus unexpectedly died in his sleep a year after Aelius, and Appius died soon after. Titus and Sevius were lost when a ship they were aboard sank in the Black Sea. This purge by death continued for almost ten years. Like so many of the Emperors before him, the human lives of subjects had become of little concern. In spite of his promises years earlier. Unlimited power brings assurance of abuse and corruption. In this case to protect the dark cloud of the secret.

  Constantine successfully built the sleepy town of Byzantium into the modern bustling central city of the Empire, Constantinople. He was also still effective at solving the Empire’s fiscal, administrative and building projects, particularly churches—but politically and militarily, he was a weaker version of his former self. He did lead successful campaigns against his old enemies the Goths and Sarmatians, but the Persians under Shapur II had begun to capitalize on those weaknesses by taking some Christian territories near their frontier. And on the Arian theological issue, he waivered dramatically.

  After Crispus and Fausta’s deaths, Ossius had immediately returned to Cordova. He had no communication from Constantine again. He wrote him several times but the letters went unanswered. Ossius suspected that Constantine knew that he was very critical of his execution of his wife and child, although Ossius had never expressed that opinion to anybody

  Ossius’ waning influence allowed Eusebius of Nicomedia to assume a larger role in Constantine’s spiritual life. In time, Eusebius and Constantine’s sister, Constantia, convinced Constantine that Arius’ theology was sound. And that the Council of Nicaea had treated a provocative— but devout—thinker unfairly. The Emperor invited Arius to Constantinople, his “New Rome.” Arius now lived in a small, two room apartment within the Imperial compound, a short distance from the Hagia Irene. Thus the convenience of the letter ‘suggesting’ that Arius be brought back into the Church through the Eucharist, sent to Alexander of Constantinople.

  Alexander of Constantinople was distraught about Arius being admitted again into the Church. But there were also other reasons for his concern. Bishop Athanasius had recently been exiled to Trier, due to charges of having an opponent murdered, illegally taxing parishioners, sorcery and treason. Athanasius still wrote frequently to Alexander and his deacon, Clodius. Letters from a sorcerer and traitor could be grounds for exile themselves.

  After several hours, Clodius and the rest of the staff realized that Alexander was missing. After some searching, Clodius and Macarius, one of Alexander’s assistants, located their bishop in his
bedroom, behind a locked door.

  Clodius inquired: “Holiness, are you ill?”

  “Yes!” Alexander answered through the door. “The Lord has struck my heart with sorrow that cannot be healed.”

  “Pray, my Bishop, open the door so that we can see the nature of your illness,” Macarius pleaded.

  There was a click. But the door stayed closed. Uneasy, Clodius and Macarius looked at each other, slowly opened the door and inched in. The old man was on his knees, praying at the side of his bed. Macarius stayed standing; Clodius sat in a woven chair, closer to Alexander.

  “What is the cause of this sorrow, Holiness?”

  Alexander had been weeping. His eyes were wet and puffy. His lips, trembling. “I have received a letter from the Emperor. He instructs me to accept the Infidel into the Church with communion this Sunday.”

  Clodius and Macarius looked at each other again, knowing that an inevitable day had come.

  “Holiness, we knew this was coming. Athanasius mentioned it after the Synod last year. He believed that it would be sometime after Easter that this filth would try this. To feign acceptance of our Creed. And request a return to the Church. My anger is that the time has come so soon. It’s an injustice. What shall we do?” Clodius responded.

  Alexander nodded and started to weep again. “I had hoped that Constantine would remain immune to the poison of his worldly cousin. As he was for years. But he has given in. I am on my knees now, praying that the Lord will take me before Sunday. Or I pray the Lord to take that serpent Arius. Any way that I might be excused from committing this blasphemous act. Please, God! I pray to you, relieve me of my earthly role. I have not the strength. Please deliver me from this evil!”

  Clodius had become accustomed to talking the old man through his spells of weeping. “Holiness, I promise you—I promise you emphatically—your prayers will be answered. The Blessing of our Sacred Eucharist shall not be bestowed to that demon.”