Caesar's Lord, page 27
On the second day of the two-day journey, the emperor invited Lactantius to join him in his personal carriage. The Christian professor of rhetoric had served him well over the years as a valued adviser for religious affairs. Years ago, Lactantius rose through the ranks at Nicomedia as a public orator. During the age of persecution, he returned to his native Africa, then he did a stint in Gaul as the tutor to Caesar Crispus. No one had been more influential than Lactantius in forming that lad into the mature believer he now was. Constantine would always feel indebted to this godly professor for shaping his beloved son into such an upstanding young man. Now, Lactantius’s wisdom was needed once again.
“There is a weighty matter I wish to discuss with you,” Constantine announced as the carriage rolled along. “It is theological, yet it doesn’t relate to the topics of the council.”
“I have the scriptures here in my satchel,” Lactantius replied, patting the leather case on the seat beside him. “So then, Your Highness, let us discuss the things of God and seek truth together.”
Constantine grimaced, not in displeasure at the professor’s words, but at the thought of the matter he had to bring up. Yet there was no way around it, so he plunged in. “Recently I learned that my brother-in-law attempted to escape and stir up a rebellion. Despite the mercy I granted him after our wars, Licinius plotted against me at Thessalonica. He contacted an army of Goths and tried to break out of the city. He was given a fair trial before a magistrate, and the evidence was damning. The verdict was high treason. As you know, that is a capital crime.”
“Ah, I see. You wish to discuss the power of the sword. It is given by God to the ruling authorities. So says the apostle Paul in the Book of Romans.”
“I am familiar with the passage, for I have reflected often upon it. God establishes all governing authority. Those who obey have no need to fear. Only those who disobey do, for they are defying what God has instituted. This brings them under rightful judgment. Human authorities are God’s servants. Their sword executes God’s wrath against wrongdoing. This is what the blessed Paul writes. It couldn’t be clearer.”
“And yet you feel conflicted in the case of Licinius?”
“I do—not because he is my relative, nor because I doubt the things I have just recited from Romans.”
“Then why?”
“Because of things written in other scriptures. The sayings of Jesus about turning the other cheek. The mercy taught in the Christian church. How does that fit with governments bearing the sword in capital punishment, or indeed, in war? There are few men I trust more than you, Lactantius. As your emperor who is tasked to carry out these things, I seek your guidance.”
To his credit, Lactantius didn’t answer right away. Such deep questions shouldn’t be answered with quick responses or glib replies. After a time of thoughtful consideration—or maybe prayer—Lactantius said, “Do you remember the confessor from Pontus whom I brought before you with his wife?”
“The fellow with no fingers? How could I forget such cruelty? The sight of his maimed hand is etched upon my mind.”
“Mine too, for it was a heinous deed inflicted by a tyrant. And this brings us to the question of the government’s sword. Many theologians believe that wars can be called just when they stem the tide of aggressive evil. Perhaps no Christian should participate in them. That is an ancient teaching of the church, and some believers still hold to it, though no longer everyone. Yet whether or not Christians can participate directly in killing, the wars must still be fought to protect the innocent. My own views on this have changed.”
“And what do you now teach, my brother?”
“He who punishes evil guards the safety of the good. Who is guilty of violence? Not the authority who institutes just punishments. Nor the soldier who fights against marauders. Rather, he is guilty who injures an innocent person—but also guilty, Your Highness, is the judge who spares the aggressor so he may injure more. The farmer who lets a weasel run loose in his henhouse when he could have stopped it is just as responsible for the bloodshed as the weasel itself.”
The image was vivid, and Constantine reflected on it as he stared out the carriage’s window. Once, as a boy, he entered a henhouse to collect eggs. A weasel had invaded during the night, and its carnage was wanton, pointless, and complete. It seemed as if the whole henhouse had been painted red inside. Some creatures were just vicious killers by nature. If no one stopped them, they kept spilling the blood of the helpless.
“It is difficult enough being a Roman emperor,” Constantine said at last. “But I am finding that being a Christian emperor is the hardest thing of all.”
“We are praying for you to find wisdom, Your Highness. The church’s leaders don’t expect you to be perfect. We understand you are trying to balance many difficult things. But we can certainly see the difference between you and those who were hostile to the things of God.”
Constantine nodded, feeling grateful for Lactantius’s answer. He glanced out the window, then pointed into the distance. “Look! There is Nicaea on the horizon.”
“Many new things are on the horizon,” Lactantius said. The two friends lapsed into congenial silence as they approached the city.
Once the imperial carriage reached Nicaea’s encircling walls, Constantine saw that an encampment had sprung up in the countryside. Since Nicaea was a small city, there wasn’t sufficient room in the imperial palace, nor among the householders who could take in boarders, to lodge three hundred bishops and all their attendants. Constantine had arranged for leather tents to be sent ahead for the council’s delegates.
Fortunately, the springtime weather was pleasant and the tents weren’t uncomfortable. After taking a brief tour, Constantine was gratified to find that an upbeat, festive atmosphere permeated the camp. The bishops believed their cause was important, and they were excited about finding a solution. The visitors had plenty to eat, thanks to the produce of the regional farms and the abundant fish from Nicaea’s lake. An aqueduct supplied pure, running water from the nearby mountains. Everything was set for the momentous event that was about to commence.
After a week of preparations, Constantine decided it was time for the council to be called into session. All the bishops and a few of the most senior priests gathered in the throne room of the lakeside palace. Seats had been provided for the churchmen, not only because some were frail on account of age, but also because many bore injuries from the persecutions that had only recently ended. Constantine had commanded that a special seat be placed up front for Bishop Paphnutius of Thebes—a faithful confessor who had been condemned to the imperial mines after refusing to deny his faith. Paphnutius had been intentionally crippled when his hamstring was severed and his eye gouged from its socket. The bishop surely would have perished in the mines had Constantine not defeated his enemies and rescinded the laws that persecuted the Christians. Now Paphnutius was at Nicaea to offer the special kind of wisdom only the confessors could supply.
No trumpet fanfare signaled Constantine’s entrance into the hall because its brash sound would have been unseemly at such an august event. Nor did an armed military escort accompany the emperor. Yet his purple robe, adorned with gold trim and gemstones, was his very best. It was the same as he would have worn at a formal state occasion, for a meeting of God’s leaders demanded no less respect than human dignitaries would have been accorded.
Constantine proceeded down the center aisle toward a gilded throne while the bishops filled the hall on either side. But when he reached the dais where his throne was situated, he paused. “I am merely a fellow Christian,” he declared to his guests. “This is a convocation of the prelates of God’s church. It is no imperial gathering but a spiritual one. Therefore I seek your permission to take a seat in your midst.”
At these humble words, a murmur rippled through the room. “Sit with your brethren!” someone shouted from the crowd. “We invite you!” cried someone else. An acclamation went up that Constantine was welcome at the council. Only after the bishops had taken their seats did the emperor finally sit down.
Bishop Ossius, the formal convener of the council, now rose from his place and offered some opening words and a prayer of invocation, followed by a hymn. When he had returned to his chair, an expectant hush fell upon the hall. Constantine cleared his throat, then began to speak in Latin while an interpreter at his side translated his words into Greek.
The central theme of Constantine’s speech was Christian unity. After giving public thanks to God for his recent victories over Licinius, he declared, “My brethren, now that all the impious tyrants have been removed from this earth by the power of God our Savior, I pray that the evil spirit who delights in divisions might be defeated as well. In my view, the existence of strife within God’s church is far more dangerous than any human war or conflict. That is why these theological differences of yours grieve me more than political discord could ever do.”
Constantine paused to let these heavy words sink in. The bishops nodded sagely and stroked their beards as they contemplated the evils of disunity within the body of Christ. Then, to take things in a more positive direction, the emperor continued, “Nevertheless, I rejoice as I sit here beholding this sacred assembly! I brim with optimism at what might be achieved over the coming weeks. My prayers will be fulfilled when I see you all united in one judgment, sharing the bond of peace among yourselves. Such unity is fitting for those whose labors are consecrated to the service of God. And I believe this lofty goal shall be achieved!”
These words elicited cheers from the gathered bishops. While they were celebrating, a servant brought in a charcoal brazier and set it at the emperor’s feet. When Constantine had the room’s attention again, he displayed a thick pile of documents. They were the many petitions that had been submitted since his arrival, with this or that churchman engaged in petty arguments about topics they wanted the emperor to adjudicate. After explaining what the documents were, Constantine announced, “Far be it from me to decide such disputes on behalf of the church! Instead, I call upon you to imitate the divine peace of God and be reconciled to one another in brotherly love. Withdraw your accusations, and let the harmony of Christ prevail among you.”
With every eye on him, Constantine rose. He dropped the petitions into the brazier, and a fire immediately sprang up. While the churchmen gawked at this dramatic turn of events, Constantine raised both hands toward heaven. The flames danced at his feet, and the smoke of the burning petitions sent flecks of parchment swirling around him.
“Delay not, dear friends!” he cried. “Delay not, you ministers of God and servants of our common Savior! From this moment on, set aside the divisions that have existed among you. Embrace instead the principles of peace! For in so doing, you will not only please the Supreme God, you will also grant a boon to me, your fellow servant in the Lord.”
At this prearranged moment, a door opened to Constantine’s right. He exited quickly, leaving the smoke from the frivolous petitions rising into the rafters and wafting out the windows. Constantine could hear the tumult of the marveling bishops as he left the hall. Thank you, Lord, he prayed once the door had closed behind him. He knew the council’s historic opener had made an impression that its witnesses would never forget.
For a long time, the emperor stood quietly at a window. He slowed his breathing and calmed his spirit as he gazed upon the lake of Nicaea. Sunlight sparkled on the blue expanse. The scene was tranquil, and Constantine allowed the gentle breeze to caress his face, bringing the scent of jasmine to his nostrils. It was a soothing feeling, and he delighted in it—until a servant’s voice interrupted the quiet moment.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Your Majesty,” said the Curator of Correspondence, a man named Horace. He extended a wax tablet and stylus toward Constantine. “The courier is leaving within an hour, and if this doesn’t gain your signature now, it will be delayed by several weeks.”
Constantine received the tablet, then frowned as soon as he saw what it was. Instead of postponing the inevitable, he scrawled his name in the appropriate place and pressed his signet ring into the wax. After bowing respectfully, Horace took the document away. It was the death warrant for Licinius’s execution.
“It’s hard being a Christian emperor,” Constantine muttered with a shake of his head. “May the Lord have mercy upon my soul.”
Rex handed his military-style knapsack to a tattooed sailor, who set it amidships without lashing it down since the weather today was going to be fair. The man reached out again, and Rex passed him the more ladylike traveling bag of Sabina Sophronia. When this, too, was stowed, Rex stepped into the boat, then turned to his mother-in-law behind him on the dock. “Ready?” he asked, extending his hand to help her into the unsteady craft.
“More than ready,” she replied, taking his hand as she stepped from the dock. “There’s nothing like lying abed for a week to make you want to see the sun and feel the wind on your face again.”
Sophronia looked pale and gaunt, so Rex agreed with her comment that the fresh air and sunshine would probably do her good. She had been in Nicomedia for about a month now and, unfortunately, had caught an illness around the time that Bishop Ossius was departing for the council. Unable to travel to Nicaea, Sophronia had remained behind at the imperial palace, attended by the emperor’s personal physician. Now she was ready to travel again. Ossius had asked Rex to bring her down to Nicaea as soon as possible, escorting her along the route and staying with her upon arrival. Rex thought that if they hurried, they might even arrive before the council’s opening session.
Once the two travelers were seated in the fishing boat, a crewman pushed it away from the pier and another man hoisted the sail. It caught the breeze and snapped taut. Soon the craft was out of Nicomedia’s harbor and into the open waters of the Propontis.
Since the goal was to reach Nicaea in one day, the two travelers hadn’t taken the time to eat breakfast this morning. When Rex’s stomach growled loudly, Sophronia knelt beside her leather bag and brought out a loaf of bread, some soft cheese, and a little clay jar. “Never let it be said that I didn’t feed my son-in-law when he was hungry,” she said with a smile. After tearing off a piece of bread, she slathered it with cheese and some fruit spread, then handed it over. Rex was gratified to see her take some of the food as well. Even though she was feeling better, she needed to keep up her strength.
“I hear they’ve set up tents outside Nicaea,” Sophronia said as she munched on the bread. “The emperor sent them for those who can’t stay in the palace. Ossius said he’d have one waiting for me, and you can stay in it too.”
Rex licked a bit of jam from his thumb, then glanced at his mother-in-law. “You won’t stay in the palace near Ossius?”
“We did consider it,” Sophronia admitted. “In the end, though, we decided it’d be best not to. For appearances, you know? With so many bishops around, I wouldn’t want to do anything to taint his reputation.”
Rex had rarely discussed with Sophronia her relationship with Ossius, for it was her own business and there was no need to pry. In one sense, it was a perfectly normal relationship, since many priests practiced celibacy while inviting a woman to live under his roof to care for household duties. Yet such women—called “beloveds” by those who adhered to the practice—were often the subject of public scandal. Sometimes their illicit behavior at night was just a rumor, though all too often, it was real. Either way, the suspicion was always there, among not only Christians but also the mocking pagans. Many bishops wanted to use the occasion of Nicaea to make a church law against this disreputable practice.
Ironically, Bishop Ossius was one of the foremost critics of priests bringing women to live with them in their homes. Back in Hispania, he had presided over a council that condemned this common Christian practice. Ossius was strict about never spending the night alone in a house with Sophronia. In public, he didn’t touch her physically, nor display any romantic affection. And yet this attractive couple was . . . what? Though Rex wasn’t sure how to put it into words, it was clear a bond existed between the dashing Spanish bishop and the beautiful woman whose husband divorced her long ago. Rex decided to ask Sophronia about the relationship, though not to press the matter if she didn’t want to discuss it.
“You know,” he said cautiously, “I’ve always admired the friendship you have with Ossius. It’s holy and admirable.”
“Thank you, Rex. We have worked hard to maintain its holiness, though we aren’t beyond temptation at times.”
Sophronia’s word temptation stirred up an unpleasant memory that Rex had tried to put behind him: his encounter with Persephone a few weeks earlier. That strange day had ended with her invitation to “taste and see.” But Persephone had inadvertently used words from the church’s liturgy, and they sprang to Rex’s mind when he heard them. “I will,” he had replied. “I will taste and see that the Lord is good.” Then he left the mansion before she could disrobe and tempt him further—or before he could continue down the dangerous path he had lingered on for too long. Later, she tried to contact him at the palace, but Rex sent a godly widow to check on her instead. He hadn’t seen Persephone since that night of risky temptation.
Shaking away the memory, Rex returned his attention to Sophronia. “I think that in another life, you and Ossius would have married each other. But God had a different plan for you.”
The comment didn’t seem to make Sophronia sad. “He would have made a fine husband,” she said matter-of-factly. “I don’t know a godlier man than he. Yet think also of this, Rex. Think of how much would have been lost to the church if Ossius had settled down in Corduba to raise a family. His divine calling lay elsewhere, that much is clear to me. Ossius was chosen by God for the purpose of helping Constantine find his way into the Christian faith. And I am honored to assist his ministry however I can—as a woman and a friend.”
