Caesar's Lord, page 21
At last, the man released his fierce grip and Flavia threw back her head. She gasped and choked as she tried to suck in the air she so badly needed. Her lungs heaved. Water trickled down her throat and made her sputter. Globs of black slime dribbled from her lips. Panting, she remained on her hands and knees with her head hanging down until she finally caught her breath. Exhausted, she could only whimper at the terrible ordeal.
“Do it again,” the chief fossor ordered, and the talons once again tightened on Flavia’s neck.
“Nicomedia,” she said.
“What was that, little lady?”
“Bishop Ossius went to Nicomedia yesterday.” Flavia spat out another wad of grime, then raised her head and stared into the chief fossor’s beady eyes. “That’s right! He’s on his way there now. The emperor’s most trusted adviser is about to tell him everything that happened here. Your attack on our church will be reported to Constantine’s ears within a fortnight! Then your violence will be brought into the open. Constantine will side with us!”
The chief fossor gave Flavia a disdainful look. “I doubt it. Not if he hears the story from our side first.” Gesturing toward his pimply henchman, he said, “Throw that dirty heretic out the door, then go find Father Arius. Tell him I have some important news. We have some travel plans to arrange.”
JANUARY 325
Rex walked down the gangplank of the Phoenician freighter carrying three heavy packs—his own, along with Ossius’s and Sophronia’s. The two of them were discussing departure plans with the ship’s captain while Rex got their luggage onto Caesarea’s dock. The stopover on the way to Nicomedia would last a few days, so everything had to be unloaded. Though neither Ossius nor Sophronia were frail, Rex still preferred to do the heavy lifting for his esteemed friends. And it never hurts to keep your mother-in-law happy, he reminded himself with a chuckle.
The trip up from Alexandria had taken ten days instead of the usual five because each time a winter squall arose, the captain hunkered down in a port, including three wasted days in Ascalon. But Ossius wasn’t too concerned about it. Since there wasn’t a deadline to bring Constantine the news about the Arian attack on the church—and Ossius wasn’t looking forward to reporting his failure to make peace between the factions—the bishop thought it best to visit some Christian leaders along the way and solidify their support. Rex, however, just wanted to get home to Flavia as soon as he could. Yet it wasn’t his call to make.
Now he was in Caesarea, commonly called Seaside Caesarea to differentiate it from others with that name. From what he had already seen, Rex could tell it was a remarkable place. Its ancient patron, Herod the Great, had made it into a glorious city by building long moles into the sea to form the harbor where the freighter was now docked. This created a safe port that allowed ships to come from afar to this otherwise smooth stretch of coastline. It was an impressive construction, though Rex thought the lighthouse on the breakwater’s tip looked rather small compared to the one back in Alexandria.
By far the most imposing sight at Caesarea was what Rex was looking at now. Though the terrain was flat, King Herod built a high platform surmounted by a temple for the worship of his patron: the founder of the empire, Caesar Augustus. The temple gleamed as if lit from within, though Rex reminded himself God’s sun actually illumined it. Only darkness could be found in emperor worship, a pagan requirement that had claimed the blood of many a Christian martyr.
A familiar voice from behind made Rex turn around. “Many thanks, my brother, for being not only our guardian but our camel!” Ossius said with a smile as he descended the gangplank, followed by Sophronia.
“And thank you from me as well,” Sophronia added, “though I have to admit, I have never seen a three-humped camel before!”
Rex was about to make a joking reply about the heavy luggage when a man interrupted them, hailing the threesome with an enthusiastic welcome. He was a short, chubby fellow with a scalp that was bald except for shaggy tufts behind his ears. His tunic was decorated with chi-rho emblems set in roundels on the hem.
“Bishop Eusebius, it is a pleasure to see you again,” Ossius said with a gracious dip of his chin. Introductions were made to Sophronia and Rex, then the portly bishop led his guests through Caesarea’s streets to a quiet neighborhood in the north. It was a lovely area near the coast, yet not as opulent as the imperial city center or the monumental south, where Herod’s old palace was built.
The main church of Caesarea didn’t yet use the new architectural model of a basilica. The building to which Eusebius led his guests was instead an urban domus whose second story had a wide balcony that gave a view of the sea. Eusebius turned to Ossius with a twinkle in his eyes. “This house has always been in Christian hands, ever since the days of the apostles. Can you guess whose it is?”
“The centurion Cornelius?” Ossius ventured.
“A good guess, but no. It belonged to Philip the deacon—he who baptized the Ethiopian eunuch and had four daughters who prophesied. The canonical Acts tells us that Philip gave hospitality to the apostle Paul on his way to Hierusalem. Great Christian events happened here!”
“Then this is the perfect house of worship for a church historian like yourself.”
“Historian and librarian,” Eusebius said with uncontainable enthusiasm. “Follow me and I’ll show you.”
The energetic little bishop ushered his guests into what was once a peristyle garden with two stories. Above and below, bedrooms opened onto a covered walkway around the garden, but these rooms were no longer used for sleeping. Instead, the walls of each were lined with book cupboards. Rex immediately recognized where he was, for he had heard of this famous place. It was the Christian library of Caesarea, whose biblical and theological holdings surpassed even those of the Catechetical School at Alexandria.
Sophronia pointed to a massive codex that lay open on its own table. The book was so big that it was surely never moved about, only consulted where it lay. “What is that great volume?”
Though Eusebius seemed to grin constantly, somehow his smile grew even wider. “Come and see!” he cried as he waddled over. His guests followed him.
Every page of the book was divided into six columns. The first was Hebrew, the second contained Greek letters that made no sense to Rex, and the final four were versions of the Greek Old Testament. “This is the work of Christianity’s most brilliant scholar,” Eusebius explained. “It is the Hexapla of Origen, who is from your city but sojourned in ours as well. When he died from a persecution, his scholarship was taken up by my mentor, Pamphilus, who was also martyred for our Lord. Now I am the great book’s keeper.”
“What is the second column?” Sophronia asked. “The letters spell no words.”
“That is a transliteration of the Hebrew text into Greek characters. Origen was one of the few Christians who knew both languages. He had many learned discussions with the local rabbis.” Eusebius paused, as if redirecting his thoughts back to the present, then said, “But enough with the church history! No good host should reveal his house’s treasures until his guests are first refreshed from their journey. Follow me to the bedrooms—for we do have some that contain beds instead of books.”
The bedrooms were comfortable and well-appointed, which was fortunate since the traveling party ended up spending two rainy days in Caesarea while the captain of the freighter waited for better weather. Rex enjoyed learning more about the history of Christianity from Eusebius, who was the greatest expert on that subject. Yet when the discussions turned theological, it was obvious the rotund bishop had strong Arian sympathies. Rex often noticed Ossius frowning at Eusebius’s remarks. Alexander had convinced the Spanish bishop about the dangers of Arianism. He didn’t like what he was hearing from Eusebius.
On the third morning, a clear sky greeted the travelers at dawn. Word came that the Phoenician freighter would depart within an hour. Eusebius announced he would be joining the trip because, as he put it, “I, too, have a stake in this report being made to my friend, the Emperor Constantine.” Since Ossius was in no position to forbid it, he welcomed Eusebius to the expedition.
Unexpectedly, the travelers were joined by yet another bishop just as the ship was about to depart. He was Macarius, bishop of Hierusalem. Though that city’s official name had been Aelia Capitolina ever since Emperor Hadrian took it from the Jews and dedicated it to his own family and to Jupiter, its current bishop didn’t like to acknowledge this pagan political reality. So Macarius called the city Hierusalem like the scriptures did, and many other Christians followed his lead.
As the ship made its way up to Antiochia, Rex found that he enjoyed Macarius’s company. The man was young to be a bishop, maybe about forty years old. His hair was jet black and hung down to his shoulders in a rugged, masculine way. Unlike most churchmen, he also had an impressive physique, with muscular arms and a trim waist. “I didn’t come up through the ranks of the church,” Macarius explained. “I was a woodworker like our Lord—still am, actually.”
But despite his rustic occupation, Macarius was by no means unlettered. His mind was sharp and his theological interests were wide ranging. Rex wasn’t surprised to learn that, like Bishop Ossius, Macarius also held suspicions about Eusebius’s affinity for Arianism. This made things a little tricky because Caesarea’s bishop held ecclesiastical authority over Hierusalem in the hinterland. Macarius always tried to be respectful toward Eusebius, even though he found the senior bishop’s theology to be errant.
The simmering tension between Eusebius on the one hand and Ossius and Macarius on the other broke into the open when the travelers reached Antiochia. About sixty regional churchmen had gathered to elect a new bishop since the previous one had recently died. The newly installed bishop also supported what everyone had started calling the “Alexandrian” view: that the Father and Son were coeternal and equally divine.
But Eusebius took a firm stand on the saying from John’s gospel that “the Father is greater” than the Son. “I mean no disrespect to Jesus,” he insisted. “Yet the scriptures say he was inferior to God. And the Spirit ranks third within the Triad. A hierarchy—one, two, three—makes perfect sense.”
Macarius of Hierusalem couldn’t remain quiet at this. “Your name means ‘piety,’ brother, but your view is impious! What irony that the two foremost Christians with your name, the Eusebii of Caesarea and Nicomedia, both hold to the falsehood of Arius.”
“The emperor has already chastised the other Eusebius,” Ossius remarked, “and I fear he will chastise you as well.”
Now Eusebius’s round face grew flushed, like when he had lifted himself up a staircase. “I am Constantine’s personal friend! By my own hand, I am writing his biography—he who represents on earth the will of our Lord in heaven. Constantine will not rebuke me!”
“Do not put your hopes in the emperor’s friendship,” Ossius implored. “Instead, win the friendship of your brethren by holding to sound doctrine.”
But Eusebius remained unmoved. Crossing his arms over his ample body, he declared, “The emperor will soon be seeing things after the manner of Arius.”
All the other bishops shook their heads at the bold assertion. “How can you be so sure?” Macarius asked.
“Because Arius has sent a letter ahead of you to the imperial court.”
The startling statement made everyone in the room fall silent. Even Rex, who was only observing the discussion from the perimeter, could sense the dismay of the stunned bishops. Ossius finally broke the silence. “Explain yourself, Bishop Eusebius.”
“After you left Alexandria, Father Arius caught wind of your return to the emperor with a negative report. Immediately he wrote a letter explaining his side of things and dispatched it with a swift courier. The man reached Caesarea while we were still there. In fact, he was aboard that ship we saw leaving an hour before us. He reached Seleucia the same day we did, but he did not follow us inland to Antiochia. Instead, he continued his sea voyage. By now he is well along the coast of Asia. He carries a truthful letter about the events in Alexandria—a letter that God is speeding toward its noble recipient in Nicomedia.”
Now the bishops began to talk furiously among themselves while Eusebius sat in their midst with a smug expression. After a long, heated exchange, a plan was agreed upon. The report Ossius was bringing to Constantine would have to be sent ahead by its own speedy courier—but not by sea. Although the overland trip was seven hundred miles, the bishops believed that with the use of the imperial relay system and the help of Almighty God, it could be delivered faster than with a ship. The timing would be close. Yet the bishops agreed it was vital for their letter to arrive ahead of Arius’s. The first person to tell a story always shaped how other versions would be perceived.
Despite the bishops’ theoretical agreement about the plan, one of them, a man named Zenobios, thought the feat would be impossible. “Do you know what the interior of Asia is like in winter?” he asked his fellow churchmen. “It’s full of high mountains, cold winds, and barren plains with no shelter. And what about the Cilician Gates? That gorge is infested with robbers!”
“Even so, the deed must be done,” insisted Macarius of Hierusalem. “The matter is urgent. Someone strong enough to do it must be found.”
For a long moment, the bishops were quiet as each one wrestled with his thoughts and tried to find a solution. And then, once again, Bishop Ossius broke the silence.
“I know just the man,” he said.
The warrior Geta crouched beneath Thessalonica’s massive city wall, examining its height in the pale moonlight. Although the sea walls seemed to rise straight from the water, in fact, a tiny bit of gravelly land was at their base. All was quiet, for the spot Geta had chosen was an out-of-the-way place where boats did not pass since there was no dock for a mile in either direction. Here, the only living things were fish, birds, and barnacles on the seawall. Now they were joined by a speculator from Germania who knew how such walls could be scaled.
On the third attempt, Geta’s grappling hook found purchase in the battlements above. The rope attached to the hook was knotted, a humiliating yet necessary adaptation. A speculator ought to be able to ascend a simple rope. But many years ago, Geta sustained a broken shin that left him lame for life. He could only ascend the rope with the help of the knots as footholds.
Once he had reached the top of the wall, Geta paused to catch his breath. No guards patrolled the parapet, for Thessalonica was at peace and security was lax. The gates were wide open by day, so whoever sought entry to the city could simply walk in. No one had a reason to scale the walls—no one, that is, except the lone speculator on an extraction mission.
In the quiet moment while Geta was calming his breath, he gazed upon the stunning urban landscape bleached by the pale light of a crescent moon. The sea bordered one side of the city, and across its ruffled waters gleamed the snowy summit of Mons Olympus. Within the city walls, not far away, was the palace complex built by Emperor Galerius. There was a lavish imperial residence, and next to it was a building of equal importance: a hippodrome for chariot races.
Below Geta’s lofty perch was a tiny yard. Two of its sides consisted of the city wall and the back end of the hippodrome. The other two sides were high walled as well, forming a secure enclosure with a single, stout gate. Inside the yard was a grassy area and a two-room building that abutted the city wall. Its front room had windows, so perhaps it was somewhat pleasant. The rear room, however, was windowless and no doubt dreary. Yet this was the home—or indeed, the prison—of the man Geta had come to see: Valerius Licinius, the true emperor of Rome, and Geta’s beloved father.
After all these years, it has come to this. The son who was given life by his father is about to give life in return!
After checking his grappling hook to make sure it was securely set, Geta hauled up the knotted rope from where it dangled down the outside of the wall. Then he dropped it inside the yard, allowing its end to coil upon the roof of the two-room building. With utmost silence, Geta climbed down. Kneeling on the roof, he carefully moved a single tile ever so slightly. He winced at the scraping sound it made, for he knew guards were always stationed in the front room. Yet nothing stirred, so Geta moved the tile a little more until a small hole was revealed. He lay down on the roof with his mouth near the opening.
“Psst!” he whispered into the rear room.
No answer. Geta waited. Finally, a hushed voice said, “Who are you?”
“A lifelong ally,” Geta replied in the barest of whispers. “One who seeks to free you.”
There was another long silence, then the question was repeated: “Who are you?”
Powerful emotions rose up within Geta. He hadn’t spoken with his father for many years. Since he was an illegitimate son, he’d never had a political destiny. Yet Licinius had loved Geta’s mother—if love was the right word for a courtesan—so he had helped Geta enter the army, and had even commissioned him as a spy. Would Licinius remember those things? It was time to find out. “I am Geta,” he declared.
Down below, Licinius paused, then asked, “The son of the beautiful Saxon?”
He remembers! “Yes, Your Majesty, the son of Inga.”
“Inga was beloved to me. We sent you to the speculator academy, yes?”
“You did, the academy in the Alps, where I excelled as a cadet. Then upon my graduation, you commissioned me as a spy in Rome during the time of Maxentius.”
“What happened to you after that?”
“I left combat duty because of an injury. Yet I have stayed committed to you through all these years. Once, I even sought to assassinate Constantine. My allegiance lies only with you.”
“And why have you come here tonight, loyal son?”
“To free you and once again see you rise to the noble height you deserve.”
