The Burning Stone

by Jack Whyte

  “Problem? What Christian problem?”

  “The problem caused by their existence! They’re revolutionaries, Quintus. Everything they stand for opposes the Roman way of doing things. Their poisonous doctrine, taught to them by priests who call themselves bishops, is one of love and tolerance, forgiveness and compassion. They deal in hope, and in the belief that there is another, better world beyond this one. Suffer here, they say, to win eternal happiness in the next life. And that is truly revolutionary in a way that we hardheaded Romans cannot counter. There has never been a religion like this before now, and how is any government supposed to deal with it? Short of killing them all for simply being simple and loving their enemies, how does one punish them for being so different? You can’t fine them or confiscate their goods, for they have nothing. You can’t threaten them with death, because they’ll welcome it. And you can’t flog them because they exult in pain and suffering, in preparation for the next, eternal life. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “And do you still maintain you can’t understand what ‘problem’ I am talking about?”

  “No, I’m starting to appreciate it. So how does Constantine intend to resolve the matter?”

  “By being a politician. He is relying heavily upon the fact that they are men, and therefore human.”

  “I assume you mean the priests, these bishops?”

  “Correct.”

  “And what will their humanity provide to him, as Emperor?”

  “Opportunity. He recognized their religion…when?” He paused, brows wrinkled. “Five years ago, it was. The year after he assumed supreme command. And since then he has been working—working very hard—on winning them over to his way of seeing the world. And until the day of his death, Marcus Varrus was his closest associate in that task. Your father was Constantine’s field commander in the campaign against the Christians.”

  “So it’s a war? I see. And how did that work?”

  “Slowly and steadily, predicated upon the time-worn old truth that every man has a price at which he can be bought.” He pursed his lips, eyeing the younger man. “Have you ever met a Christian bishop? No? Trust me, you would remember if you had. Your nostrils would not allow you to forget. Their notions of hygiene are…different. Anyway, each bishop has a territory for which he is responsible, and the most senior of them meet in a high council, guided by an elected president they call the Papa—the Father—and it dictates the policies governing their religion, policies that are constantly becoming more and more elaborate. But the most important thing the council is called upon to do is to elect a new Papa from among themselves whenever the ruling one dies.

  “When Constantine first summoned this council to meet with him in person, they were all overawed. I know that because an old friend of mine was officer of the day that day and told me about it. He remembered how cowed they all were by where they were. And who wouldn’t be cowed, to be summoned in person to attend upon the Emperor and talk to him about your life?

  “So they met with the Emperor in all his glory, and they listened, spellbound, as he told them about his desires not only to recognize their religion personally, but to promote their divine inspiration and work together with them to spread their message. He’s very good at that kind of thing.

  “And of course he also told them about the difficulties he was having with the College of Pontiffs—the assembly of priests of the old religion that would like to see the Christians condemned as enemies of the state. These were impressive enemies, he pointed out, the proponents and followers of the gods and goddesses of the ancient Roman pantheon. The Pontifex Maximus, supreme priest of all of Rome’s religions. The Flamen Dialis, high priest of the Temple of Jupiter. The Flamen Martialis, high priest of Mars. And of course the Vestal Virgins, the ancient, most sacred priestesses of Vesta, the goddess of the hearth and of the Roman ethos. He was attempting to deal with them, he told the Christians, but he was facing down more than fifteen hundred years of tradition and entrenched beliefs and rituals, and it was an enormous, time-consuming task. So while he was attending to that, he told the bishops, he would provide a personal envoy to act as interlocutor between himself and them, and he introduced them to your father.”

  He paused again, to empty his cup and set it down on the floor by his feet, then continued in a different tone of voice. “Now here’s the interesting thing about that—and again, I heard about it from my friend who was officer of the day. He said he had never seen your father looking more splendid. What he actually said was, ‘You should have seen Marcus Varrus that day, all dressed in golden clothes. But they were Constantine’s clothes, and Constantine himself was wearing even richer ones—colours and clothing I had never seen before.’ What d’you think of that?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Varrus answered slowly. “It makes no sense at all. My father was wearing the Emperor’s clothing? I can’t believe that.”

  “Believe it. He was, and it was deliberate. Those bishops looked and felt like starving crows in the imperial palace, barefoot and dressed in black rags tied up with rope belts. It was all part of Constantine’s plan.”

  “His plan to do what?”

  “To seduce them all…the Christian bishops. That first meeting was only the opening gambit in a long campaign that lasted for years, and your father was the manager, if you like—the spectacle director, the arranger—for as long as he lived. His main task, in the beginning, was to make those men aware of the splendour of everything surrounding them when they visited the Emperor, and of their own shabbiness. But it was subtle. He never shamed them, never belittled them. He simply showed them, constantly and with great care and attention to detail, how civilized imperial officials lived and dressed and functioned. Much later, once they had been lulled into the proper state of mind, he pointed out, gently, that the Emperor himself was being ridiculed for ‘consorting with crows’—not that the Emperor really minded, he said, but it might be taken as a mark of great respect if, in return for the understanding and imperial courtesy being extended to them, the bishops themselves were to dress—at least for their sessions with the imperial dignitaries and the Emperor himself—in a style more befitting the palatial surroundings. Merely a selection of more courtly vestments just for those special occasions. If they so wished, a team of imperial tailors could be placed at their disposal to help them with such things. And by the end of three years, the bishops were attending their council meetings dressed in imperial finery, and enjoying it.”

  “So…what happened then?”

  Cato shrugged. “Nothing. After each meeting, they had to return to their individual homes and conduct the rest of their work in their ordinary conditions. They were achieving miraculous amounts of work when meeting with the imperial officials in brightly lit surroundings with access to all the services they might ever need. But the contrast between that and what they were able to achieve at other times, when they had to work in their own, widely separated quarters far from the palace, grew steadily more noticeable.”

  “Until…?” Varrus was leaning forward, one elbow resting on his thigh. “You’re leading me on, aren’t you? You have to be…This is a tomfoolery of some kind, because I can sense something coming, but I can’t quite see what it is.”

  “Until…” Cato repeated solemnly. “One day, in a casual conversation with some of the assembled bishops, your father mentioned that he had overheard some of them talking about the difficulties the council was facing whenever it had to deal with matters outside the palace—difficulties with procedures that ought to be straightforward but were complicated by the inconveniences of having to communicate in primitive ways and over long distances. Of course he commiserated with them.

  “When he met with them next time, he told them he had mentioned their dilemma to the Emperor, and Constantine himself had come up with a possible solution that might work to everyone’s advantage. There was an imperial palace sitting empty in the city, the Emperor had said, and he c
ould think of no better use for it than in the service of the Christian God. Formerly known as the Domus Faustae, or the house of Fausta, his second wife, he had rebuilt it and renamed it the Lateran Palace, after its original owners, the Laterani family. He would be more than glad, he said, to lend it nominally, as a centre of church activity, to the senior bishop on the council, the Bishop of Rome. It was an official imperial palace, so the costs of maintenance would be entirely covered by the imperial treasury, and the crowning advantage would be that everything to do with church business could be conducted there, in one central place that was convenient and accessible to everyone. It was a wonderful idea, everyone agreed, and divinely inspired. The Lateran Palace became the official residence of the bishop of Rome nearly five years ago.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “Oh, you can believe it, because it is now a minor, almost insignificant point. Far more important than that is the reality that the Emperor himself is now a Christian bishop! The College of Pontiffs, the priests of the old religion, has been rendered voiceless. Who now is going to dare cry out for persecution or condemnation or discrimination against Christians anywhere?”

  Cato picked up his empty cup and peered into it, but Varrus was already standing up.

  “But…but that’s…”

  “What? Pathetic? Monstrous? Unbelievable, astounding, unacceptable? It’s brilliant, Quintus, that’s what it is! Politically brilliant. Perhaps the greatest reversal of its kind in history, and all of it due to the political astuteness of one man. One man, Quintus, who single-handedly drew the fangs of the most dangerous revolutionary movement ever to threaten the empire.”

  “No! How can you say that? The Christians are still out there, increasing in numbers every day.”

  “Aye, but their leadership has joined the empire! Their bishops are now courtly figures. Think about what that means, man. The ragged, ill-fed, leaderless rabble still turn the other cheek and preach tolerance and love, but the world can live with that. And their own leaders will hold them in restraint, now that they themselves are eating well and regularly, every day their God permits them to remain alive. And trust me, their voices will grow steadily less and less strident in demanding revolution as they grow more accustomed to luxury and wealth. And so the voices of dissent within the empire have been choked.” He glanced down at his empty cup again and said quietly, almost musingly, “I think we’re done here, though if I had more wine I’d drink to Constantine and his genius.”

  “No, we’re not quite done, not yet.”

  Cato frowned. “What more is there to say? Have you something to tell me more impressive than what I have just finished telling you?”

  “No, I don’t, but I still have some unanswered questions. One main one, anyway.”

  “Fine, then. But not another word until I have a fresh drink in my hand.”

  FORTY-ONE

  “Thirsty business this talking, isn’t it?” Cato raised his cup in solemn salute and drank slowly. “Fortunate that you insisted on adding the water at the outset, my friend, and even so, I can feel the wine. It’s very good. So, what’s your question?”

  “The obvious one, I think,” said Varrus. “Who was responsible for killing my family?”

  “I told you already.”

  “No, Cato, you did not. You told me your suspicions, but you never came out and said who you thought was behind the plot. Who was it?”

  “We don’t know, Quintus. And I did tell you that already. We never could find out who gave the orders for the killing. But it was one of the college guilds. That much we were sure of. We simply couldn’t take it any further. All the doors leading out from that conclusion were closed and barred.”

  “The college guilds. You mean the College of Pontiffs? The priests of the old Roman religions?”

  “Collectively, yes. When I asked you who else might benefit from the breakdown of your father’s negotiations, you immediately said that it must be whoever stood to lose most if they were successfully concluded. Well, the College of Pontiffs stood to lose everything. That is no exaggeration. Their entire world was being threatened—their pantheon of gods and all the structures and embellishments that sustained it. If this upstart Christian sect acquired the validity and respectability it appeared to be winning, then their religions, all of them, would be declared invalid—their very lives would be destroyed, their worshippers would disappear, and they themselves would eventually be reduced to destitution.”

  He paused, squinting at Varrus, gauging his reaction. “I know that sounds dramatic, but think about it from the point of view of those priests and priestesses. Your father was negotiating with the Christians, to install them in the Lateran Palace and to have them accept the Emperor into the upper levels of governance of their church. The Emperor of Rome was considering becoming a ruler of a church that denied the ancient Roman gods that keep them fed and clothed.”

  “It’s not the gods that keep them fed and clothed,” Varrus said. “Precisely. It isn’t. That’s exactly the point I want you to understand. It’s the worshippers of the gods, the sacrifices they offer up and the donations they make, that keep priests fed and clothed. If you take away the ancient gods and abolish their worship, you disinherit legions of priests. Legions of them. Have you any idea how many priests are in Rome alone, how many are members of the College of Pontiffs?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “There are thousands. Thousands, all dependent upon the existence of their particular gods, whether they be called Diana, Vulcan, Jupiter, Mars, or Venus, or even Baal, Aten, Ra, or Ptah. There is no shortage of gods, Quintus. Every people has a surfeit of them, and every one of them has priests or priestesses. But your father was negotiating to put an end to all of them.”

  “That seems a bit harsh,” Varrus said, diffident in spite of what he had just heard. “They can’t all be bad.”

  “I’m not saying they’re bad. All I am saying is they’re there, and they’re always there, and they have always been there, since the beginning of time, being clad and fed by worshippers.” He raised a hand dramatically, one finger pointing upwards. “Believe me, on the very first day that the very first man made the very first sacrifice to the very first god, the very first priest stepped out from behind a bush and said, ‘The god can’t be here to thank you for your offering in person, but he has appointed me to collect it from you on his behalf.’”

  Cato nodded. “It was one of them, one of the colleges, believe me—but as for which one, your guess is as good as anyone else’s.”

  “You mean…Are you saying that my family was destroyed by a college of Roman priests? You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  The slightest hint of a scowl marred Cato’s forehead for an instant. “I said so, did I not? It might have been the Jupiter crew, the Flamen Dialis’s gang, but it might just as easily have been the Mars worshippers. For that matter it might even have been the Vestals. You know what they say about vengeful women, and I doubt that Vestal Virgins are any different from their more carnal sisters.” He shrugged. “Left to my own devices, I’d vote for the Vestals as the motivating force behind the entire debacle, but that’s no more than my personal prejudices making themselves felt. I can’t be sure, one way or the other. But to answer your question, yes, I really do believe that.”

  “No,” Varrus said, shaking his head. “It’s not that I disbelieve you, Marcus. But I’m having difficulty believing that a guild of priests would even think of such a thing, let alone organize it, hire a killer, and pay for the murders. It seems inconceivable to—” He stopped. “You think I’m being stupid,” he said quietly. “I can see it in your face.”

  “No, Quintus, you are not being stupid,” Cato said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “I can think of several other words that you might use to describe what you are. Young would be apt, and so would naive, and unworldly, and innocent in its true sense. You have not yet lived long enough to know what cynicism is or what starts it growing in men’s hearts, and that ignorance
is a wonderful thing that you should cherish. Or let Lydia cherish it, for I’m sure she knows it’s there inside you.”

  He smiled and drank a little more. “In a way it’s encouraging, even refreshing, that you should believe priests are incapable of murder, but it’s not true. Priests and priestesses are men and women, Quintus. Human in all respects, which means they are as venal as anyone else. And I know people who will swear them to be worse.”

  “But how could they murder an innocent family? What could justify that?”

  “Nothing could. But they were beyond justifications. They were looking to their own interests—to money and to power, and to their own survival.”

  His eyes narrowed as he gazed at the young smith. “You have your truth, Quintus, so accept it. Your family, through your father, fell afoul of a determined and desperate group of people with an enormous amount to lose if Marcus Varrus succeeded in what he set out to do. Unfortunately, because they were desperate and blinded by their own ambitions and beliefs, they failed to see that their enemy was not Marcus Varrus. He was no more than an intermediary, a man who was handling dangerous negotiations. Their principal antagonist was the Emperor—a possibility that must have been unutterably alien to them—and his motivations were purely political. The negotiations they were trying so desperately to annul were being fuelled and driven by Constantine himself.

  “I’m not suggesting that Constantine bears any responsibility for the murder of your family, though. That’s simply not true. He was doing what he had to do, as Emperor, and your father was doing what he had to do in turn, as a loyal servitor. The tragedy was that the aggrieved party sought to hire outside sources to resolve their difficulties for them, and they happened to find the most venal, lethal people available—Vassos Seneca and Appius Endor. Endor was the means to the end, the weapon that achieved their aims for them, but it was Vassos Seneca who provided all the impetus that made the murders possible. His was the power that brought the end about. He saw the profit to be made and he set out in cold blood to grasp it. He contracted and supplied the manpower, in the person of his most accomplished killer, Appius Endor, and he brokered and managed the entire operation, uncaring who died in the doing of it. And so your father perished, along with his family, for doing no more than his duty…I know that is difficult for you to accept. No man would find it easy. But your answer is there, nonetheless. Vassos Seneca was the malignant entity that made it all possible and deliberately brought it about. And though it might be small consolation, he failed, overall, because most of what your father was working to achieve has come to pass in the years since his death.