Caesar's Lord, page 30
Sensing that the meeting had come to a swift and fruitful conclusion, Constantine was about to bid his guest farewell when Fausta opened the door to a new subject. “It may surprise you to learn that this woman is more than just a housewife,” the empress said. “She is a theologian of the church as well.”
Constantine glanced at Fausta with surprise. “Since when does theology interest you?”
“I am no pagan!” Fausta answered defensively. “I teach our sons the things of God. About the Heavenly Father, and the magic of Jesus, and all of that. Women can be theologians too! I am very interested in such topics, and so are our three boys.”
Constantine chuckled, understanding his wife more clearly now. “So Crispus isn’t the only pious one in the family, eh?”
“Certainly not! I am much more theological than he. And I’m passing on my deep faith to your sons. They will be fine Christian rulers, not very long from now.”
“Indeed, they will. All four of them.” Constantine turned his attention back to Flavia. “So you are a theologian?”
“Every Christian is, Your Majesty.”
“Well said! Then what do you think should be achieved by this great council?”
“Clarity. That is what is needed most here—clarity. I know for a fact that Arius and his party wish to hide their ideas behind vague words. Athanasius has seen them whispering and snickering at the council. They believe they can accept terms like only-begotten and still hold their doctrines.”
“That term comes straight from John’s gospel. ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son.’ What could be wrong with it?”
“I will tell you,” Flavia said. “It declares Christ to be God’s only Son. But it doesn’t say exactly when the Son began. Has he always existed for all eternity? Or is he like human sons, who do not exist before they are begotten by their fathers? John’s term said nothing about eternality, so the Arians can hide behind its imprecision. They can claim the Son didn’t exist before he was begotten. He was the first creature to be made at the beginning of the world’s ages. But that would make him inferior to God.”
“You are very learned in these matters.”
“I am no more than a student of the scriptures, Your Majesty.”
“Be that as it may, most of the men here disagree with you. The creed of Caesarea appears to be acceptable to the bishops. They’re almost ready to sign it. Peace can be obtained, and everyone can go home happy.”
“But is that really the kind of peace you want? You wouldn’t accept such a peace in your earthly empire. Why would Christ on high accept it? You do him a disservice by endorsing so false a peace.”
“Is that so?” Constantine sat back in his chair, letting the little patio fall silent. There was no breeze, and the air was thick with the smell of citrus. Empress Fausta shifted in her seat, no doubt aware how dangerous it was to speak so boldly to an emperor.
Nevertheless, Flavia seemed undeterred. “There is no middle ground,” she said. “You must choose a path and follow it where it leads. Define your terms. Then live with them.”
“And how would you bring clarity to this matter, Flavia? I ask you genuinely, for I perceive you to be wise.”
“There is a word the Arians cannot abide. I have been serving Bishop Alexander as his scribe, and I have noted this many times. Whenever it comes up in discussion, the Arians grow anxious, for it is the one term that excludes their views completely.”
“And what is it?”
“Consubstantial. If the Son shares the same substance as the Father, they must be coeternal. And that means the Son cannot be a creature who once did not exist.”
“In Greek, what is this word?”
“Homoousios. If it were part of the creed, everyone would know the Arian view is excluded as heresy. Then you would have the true peace that accompanies clarity, rather than the false peace of saying nothing at all.”
For a long time, Constantine was silent as he reflected on Flavia’s words. This extraordinary woman had somehow worked her way into his palace, then confronted not only his doctrine but his very leadership of the empire. Few women would have dared such a thing. But Christian women weren’t like others. They had the holy fire of God inside them.
“You know what I think?” Constantine said at last.
“What, Your Majesty?”
“I think you are more than a theologian.”
“I am?”
“Yes, Lady Junia Flavia. I think today you have become a prophetess of God.”
JULY 325
Rex received the reed pen from Bishop Ossius and stepped up to the table on which the Nicene creed had been laid. The table was situated directly beneath the dome of the palace rotunda. Encircling it were the three hundred delegates who had gathered for the signing ceremony. Emperor Constantine watched the proceedings with an approving eye, though he had no intention of signing the creed. This was a day for the church’s leaders to express their theological harmony without any interference from politicians.
The document on the table consisted of seven pages: the creed itself, written out in beautiful Greek calligraphy, followed by six blank pages for the signatories. Ossius, as the convener of the council, had signed first. Next, Pope Sylvester’s two legates were given the privilege of signing. Then all the other bishops would sign as well.
After Rex had affixed his name to the document, writing “Vitus of Rome” beneath the name of Ossius, he glanced at the creed. Though some of its language overlapped with the earlier Caesarean one, substantial modifications had been made so that this creed was entirely different. At the insistence of Emperor Constantine—influenced by Flavia’s prompting behind the scenes—the words consubstantial with the Father had been included. Rex felt gratified to see the words written in bold script on the page. There was also a clarification of the term only-begotten, stating that the Son was “from the substance of the Father.” Everyone understood what these phrases meant: since the Son shared in the substance of the eternal Father, there was never a time when he didn’t exist. At the end of the creed, there was even a firm denial of some Arian slogans. The catholic church had once and for all rejected a creaturely Christ.
“Having second thoughts?” Vincentius quipped from over Rex’s shoulder.
Rex turned around and handed his friend the pen. “Just taking it all in,” he replied with a smile.
He made room for Vincentius to step up to the table, then left the rotunda and went to the palace’s nearly empty throne room, taking a seat next to Flavia. A grand speech from the emperor was scheduled after the signing ceremony, but with so many signatories waiting to write their names, that event was at least an hour away.
“Were the Eusebii in the rotunda?” Flavia asked. “I imagine neither of them would wish to show his face.”
“Believe it or not, they were both there. Somehow they had convinced themselves to put their names on this creed. Only three people refused to sign: two Libyans and, of course, Arius himself.”
“My mother heard from Ossius that there was a confrontation when they exiled Arius. Like someone was going to hit him on the way out the door.”
“Well, the bishop of Antiochia did take a step toward him with his fist clenched. But guess who intervened?”
“You?”
“I was thinking about it. But no, it was Nicholas of Myra. ‘Step back,’ he said. ‘Christians do not behave that way.’”
“Nicholas! He’s such a jolly man. I can’t imagine him being firm like that.”
“He was very firm. And the other bishop backed down.”
Flavia nodded. “As he should have.”
She and Rex continued to converse quietly while the creed’s signatories gradually arrived in the reception hall. It took more than an hour for the room to fill, but at last, they were all assembled. The emperor entered in grand procession and took a seat on his throne. His speech, which he called an “oration to the saints,” demonstrated a depth of theological insight that Rex found surprising. Unlike earlier in his reign, Constantine now rejected every kind of idolatrous worship, even the sun god, whom he used to equate with Christ. Clearly, the emperor had grown in his understanding of the gospel. His faith seemed genuine to Rex, though of course, only God knew the heart.
After his speech was finished, the emperor surprised everyone with an announcement about his future plans. “It was nineteen years ago that the troops at Eboracum acclaimed me as emperor,” he declared in his strong, clear voice. “To commemorate my upcoming Twentieth Year, I shall embark on a grand tour of the empire. In each place I stop, I shall spread the word of God and proclaim my hope for peace and harmony. Then, one year from now, I shall culminate the tour in Rome. There I shall join the holy bishop of that city in thanking God for my victories and in beseeching the Almighty for his continued blessings on our Christian empire!”
The momentous announcement was met with cheering from the assembled bishops. Rex leaned over to Flavia and said, “It’s a good idea. I think it will bring some needed healing after all the splits and divisions we’ve endured.”
“Harmony isn’t easy to achieve, but today it feels possible,” she agreed.
When the speech was over and the bishops were dismissed for the evening, Rex and Flavia didn’t head back to the encampment outside the walls. Since they would be leaving Nicaea tomorrow, they decided to find a hot-food counter for their last meal. After receiving a jug of wine and a dish heaped with roasted pheasant over vegetables, the pair found a bench on the lakeshore in front of the imperial palace. Across the water, the sun was setting behind the hills, giving the sky a rosy hue that faded to dark blue. Rex could see the thin line of the highway that led to the coast—the road he and Flavia would be traveling tomorrow.
“I’m ready to get home,” he said wistfully.
Before Flavia could reply, a Germanic soldier in chain mail approached the bench and said, “Stand up. The augustus and his wife wish to speak with you.”
Quickly setting aside their food, Rex and Flavia rose from their seats. The bodyguard was right: Constantine was walking up to meet them—and Fausta was at his side.
“Tonight is a night to celebrate, for we have achieved a great victory at the City of Victory!” the emperor said when he had drawn near.
“It shall be remembered through the ages,” Rex said.
“Such a victory is worthy of a grand tour so my subjects can share in what God has done. Don’t you agree?”
Rex nodded. “My wife and I both said so. We pray that the Lord will bless this endeavor.”
“Actually, there is something you could do to help those prayers be answered.” Instead of waiting for Rex to inquire what it was, Constantine followed up his words and said, “We want you to come with us.”
“Both of you,” Fausta added. “We want you to spend the next year with us on the tour.”
Rex glanced at Flavia. Judging from her expression, she seemed just as shocked as he was. Turning back to the emperor, Rex asked, “What do you want from us, Your Majesty? The empire is at rest and the legions are available. You have no need of a bodyguard.”
“That’s right. Your services are no longer required for military purposes.”
“Then what?”
“For counsel, Rex. For insight into church affairs. And beyond this, I believe the company of your wife will bless Lady Fausta, who has much to learn about the practice of the Christian faith.”
“We shall cover all your expenses,” the empress said, “and at the end of the year, we will pay you handsomely.”
Flavia looked toward Fausta and respectfully dipped her chin. “We are honored to be asked, my lady. But why do you choose us for such a task?”
Now it was Constantine and Fausta’s turn to exchange glances. They smiled at each other, then Fausta replied, “Because the two of you will tell us what we need to hear, not what you think we want to hear!”
“So what do you say?” Constantine pressed.
Stepping away from the royal couple for a moment, Rex asked Flavia, “Is the apartment in Alexandria in good hands?”
“Locked up tight, with the rent prepaid for six months. A second payment can be arranged with the landlord.”
“Then . . . do you want to do this?”
A bright smile came to Flavia’s face, and she nodded vigorously. “Let’s have another adventure, Rex!”
Turning back to the emperor, Rex bowed in grand fashion. “So be it!” he said with a flourish toward the west. “Let us go to Eternal Rome.”
“Nay, let us go to the city of God,” Constantine replied.
9
AUGUST 325
Pope Sylvester often felt that being the bishop of Rome required him to find the right balance between pastoral opposites. When to speak up and when to listen? When to thunder and when to whisper? When to pray and when to act? When to conceal and when to reveal? When to chastise and when to forgive? When to fast and when to feast? “To all things there is a time,” said the Book of Ecclesiastes, “and a season for every matter under heaven.” The pastor’s duty was to determine which time was at hand.
But today, at least, Sylvester knew what the day was about: reconciliation. This evening, after the heat of the Roman sun had abated, five repentant sinners would be reconciled to the church after their period of penitence. It would be a time for forgiveness, celebration, and feasting. These five lost sheep had been recovered from the brambles of heresy by the loving hand of the Good Shepherd.
Sylvester had arrived yesterday at the Hall of the Church, one of Rome’s original congregations that went back to the time of the apostles. He had been accompanied to the Trans Tiberim neighborhood by Archdeacon Quintus, his longtime assistant and a man of great erudition. Quintus was a dignified older man who had served the previous four popes as their chamberlain and secretary. Though normally placid, lately, something seemed to be bothering him. Quintus was restless in a way that wasn’t normal for him. “A malaise is upon me,” he had said.
“Perhaps it is from this roasting summer heat?” Sylvester had suggested.
“Perhaps,” had been Quintus’s only reply.
Sylvester walked to the central fountain in the atrium of the guesthouse where he was staying. Previously, the fountain had depicted a naked water nymph with flowers in her hair, but that sculpture was replaced when the catholic church acquired the house. Now a doe with a gracefully arched neck spewed water into a sparkling pool at her feet. Sylvester cupped his hands in the stream and drank his fill of the cool water, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. A bishop didn’t need to be fussy about such things, at least not in private. A simple life was best for the leaders of God’s church. And besides, the silver goblets left by the house’s previous owner had been moved to the church next door for the Holy Eucharist.
The front door to the house opened, letting in a blast of heat from the sun-soaked street, only to close again quickly. Then Quintus emerged from the vestibule with a little sweat on his forehead. “We have a long-awaited visitor,” he announced, indicating a man behind him. “I have just escorted him here from the Tiberis docks. Look who it is!”
When Quintus stepped aside, the atrium’s skylight revealed a lanky visitor whose shaggy red hair made him immediately recognizable. “Brother Vincentius!” exclaimed the pope. “Welcome home!”
The two men embraced and exchanged the kiss of peace while Quintus moistened a cloth in the fountain. After Vincentius had received the cloth and wiped away the sweat and grime of travel, the trio took seats in the coolest part of the atrium where the direct sunlight never reached. “Tell me everything,” Sylvester said. “But first, tell me the final outcome! Then start at the beginning and give details.”
“The Arian view was rejected at the council,” Vincentius announced.
“Praise God! Our Savior is no mere creature. Now the church has recognized it forever.”
Vincentius reached inside his satchel and brought out some parchments. “I have here a copy of the creed. Less than a month ago, the council ended its sessions and the emperor departed. I came straight here with this document for your eyes.”
“The calligraphy is beautiful,” Sylvester observed as he received the parchments.
“It was copied by Junia Flavia, the wife of Vitus.”
Sylvester was too absorbed in his reading to reply. He pored over each word of the creed, which had been translated into Latin. After examining the list of signatories, he read the creed again. Attached to its end was a repudiation of certain heretical slogans. “The rejection of the Arians is clear,” Sylvester said. “The catholic church condemns those who say ‘There was a time when he was not’ or who call the Son of God a ‘creation.’”
“It was a great victory,” Vincentius said. “The emperor finally saw the importance of truth instead of bland compromise. The eastern heresy was defeated. Now if only we could say the same about the Manichaeans infecting our city.”
“Your voice is a little raspy, brother,” Quintus observed, rising from his seat. “Allow me to get you a drink.” The archdeacon excused himself and left the other two men to their discussions of the Nicene council.
Once Vincentius’s report was complete, it was clear that the new creed had articulated orthodox doctrine in ways that would be hard to refute. Though the Arian party would surely attempt countermeasures and theological debate would continue, Sylvester felt confident that the eternal deity of Christ had been firmly established.
By the time Quintus returned with three wooden cups on a tray, the conversation had moved on to other matters. The men conversed a little longer, then Sylvester urged Vincentius to go refresh himself after his long journey. Since the house had a small bath facility, Vincentius could clean up, then catch an afternoon nap before attending the reconciliation service in the church next door.
The glare of the sun was no longer in the blue dome of heaven when Sylvester left the guesthouse and entered the Hall of the Church. It was a relatively plain building, rectangular in shape and decorated only with a simple fresco of Abraham offering his son Isaac on an altar. Next to the altar was the ram that served as a substitute that day. The faithful had already assembled when Sylvester arrived, the women on the left and the men on the right. The bishop proceeded to the far end of the hall and turned around to stand in front of the altar.
