Death of the Son, Episode VIII: In the Assembly of the Great King

Death of the Son, Episode VIII

In the Assembly of the Great King 

[Episode One; Episode Two; Episode Three; Episode Four; Episode Five; Episode Six; Episode Seven]

Theodotus and Apollon slept, again, in their quarters--but only after Theodotus had made something of a show of locking all the doors, propping furniture carefully against them as the old priest watched nervously. It was all so much theater: if the Emperor's slaves wish to take us, they will do so. Otherwise, I am more than a match for any lone assailant. A locked door will not hold anyone determined. Yet Apollon seemed truly reassured, and after only a few minutes Theodotus had the satisfaction of hearing, through his own door, the old man's snores.

He himself, though, stayed awake a great deal longer, lying in his bed, his head propped up on his hands, considering the events of the previous day, and those about to come. 

There must, he was sure, be some way to make sense of this tale...to wrest some victory from the jaws of apparent defeat. If he could only understand the players involved...deduce the secret both Crispus and Fausta had known, which Apollon had almost heard...the secret that had somehow involved the dead Emperor Licinius...the secret which he must know, when at last he spoke with Constantine...the secret that might save Eustathius' life...

But what could the secret be? So far as he and everyone else know, Licinius' tale was straightforward, if twisted in a way not uncommon for Emperors in time of civil war. A Dacian, friend of Galerius, appointed Augustus of the West to contain the usurpers Constantine and Maxentius...but unlike his fellow Tetrarchs, wise enough to see Constantine's potential, and first tolerate him, then ally with him against Maximinus Daza. Then for nearly ten years, Augustus of the East, ruling from Nicomedia, in partnership with Constantine. 

In his mind's eye, Theodotus saw the statue he had passed every day, along his route from apartment to the chancery, for nearly a decade: the heavy body, the long head, the staring eyes gazing upwards, the small, confident smile. Licinius had been the Emperor he, and everyone in the East, had looked up to, appealed to, praised and thanked for defeating the cruel pagan, the arch-persecutor Daza, and bringing the Persecution to a close. Like most, Theodotus had payed little attention to the second, smaller statue set up beside Licinius', with its sharp nose and broad face and grave expression: Licinius' Western colleague Constantine. It was only when that second statue abruptly disappeared, one morning, from its place at Licinius' side that he, and everyone else, realized that civil war had begun. 

The rest had been only rumors, let slip by tired soldiers in the taverns, or boasted of by confident, well-fed men in the market-places. Again and again, Theodotus had come into the room where his fellow court deacons worked to find them all huddled together, faces grave, discussing the latest news. Incursions, troop movements, raids, persecutions...

As the weeks went by, the talk turned more and more to this latter category. Licinius, it was said, had begun to fear the Christian clergy of his domain, seeing in them advocates and supporters of Constantine: spies, or worse. Bishops, it was said, had been arrested and put on trial before the Emperor for treason, priests expelled from the palace as spies. On every face, Theodotus saw the same fearful, enclosed expression, the same stirring memories, though no one ever actually spoke the words flicking through their mins: it is happening again...

As during the persecution, the people of Antioch began withdrawing. The crowds in the cathedral thinned by nearly a third; people began giving clerics a wide berth in the marketplace; and even the shopkeepers and slaves in the cookshops avoided Theodotus' eyes as they took his coins. Everywhere, there was a tense expectancy, like a storm about to break. 

Theodotus had not known the previous bishop, Philogonius, at all well; apart from brief meetings where he and the other deacons explained the cases and proposed judgments of the court for his approval, the two men had never spoken. Yet he remembered well the sermon Philogonius had given barely two years before, at the height of the war. 

The old bishop, like them all, had lived through the Persecution; barely ten years had passed since Daza's famous indulgences in the arena of Antioch. His thin, grizzled face had been pale even next to his white robe, and his hand had shaken as he had delivered his discourse. 

He had exhorted them, obliquely and carefully, saying nothing that might call down Licinius' wrath or those of officials, to endurance. He called to their minds the sufferings of the martyrs; and his frozen face and unblinking eyes showed clearly that he was remembering even as he spoke. The martyrs, he had reminded them, had considered the loss of their earthly possessions, even the loss of their hands and eyes (everyone's faces involuntarily turning toward the old bishop's empty socket), as nothing in comparison to the gain of heaven. It made no sense, the bishop insisted, to save perishing trifles and in so doing lose imperishable treasure. Still, he insisted, those who had left the Church and returned to their former ways of life out of fear would be welcomed back upon their return. But those who fled from Christ would never receive his rewards.

The display had been effective; the crowds of departing Christians slowed to a trickle, and many returned, shame-faced, to receive the bishop's forgiveness. Among the clergy of Antioch, though, Philogonius' courage had caused a panic. The deacons abandoned their work entirely, and instead spent all their time discussing when the hammer would fall, when and where and how Licinius would take his revenge against their bishop for speaking so openly. 

Abruptly, discussion of the Persecution ceased being taboo among the clergy of Antioch. Stories were swapped, in low tones, of brave men and women, and weak men and women, and their individual fates; of creative punishments administered to bishops by Daza, by local governors, in arenas and palace chambers and prisons. The implications, though never stated openly, were always the same: this is what will happen to Philogonius. Theodotus had taken no part in these discussions, but had wondered, idly, as he continued with his own work, if any of these discussions came to Philogonius' ears, and what the old man thought of it. He suspected the bishop had plenty of memories of his own to occupy him.

At last, it had, apparently, happened. A young priest, Eukalion, burst into the court office, just as the deacons were gathering to leave for the day, to tell them that a messenger had arrived for the bishop from Licinius. Though Eukalion had not heard the message himself, rumors had it that Philogonius had been summoned to Byzantium, where Licinius was currently holed up. Licinius, Eukalion speculated, must be furious; his rages, it was said, had grown worse and worse, and it was said he had had clerics killed in front of him, just like Daza. Even an invitation to court, Eukalion declaimed, his cheeks pale, was as good as a death sentence.

In the end, of course, nothing had happened. Whether or not Philogonius had been summoned to Byzantium, he did not go; nor was Licinius in Byzantium much longer. Within a matter of months, the old bishop was dead; a development not, Theodotus suspected, at all unrelated to the strain of those feverish months. This development seemed to sap the courage of the clergy of Antioch entirely; though month after month discussions were raised over electing a new bishop, nothing was done. There was no point, his fellow deacon Martinus had whispered, shrugging his shoulders, in electing someone who would go straight into the arena.  

As the months passed by without incident, however, the specter of persecution did not dissipate; it seemed rather, to hang in the air over the city, dimming the sunlight. People went about their business with heads bowed, shooting resentful glances at the cathedral, treating it like a bad omen. After the initial flurry of activity, the civil war seemed to have stalled; though there were still rumors of battles, they were less plausible and more fanciful, and the people stopped discussing them. The cookshop Theodotus visited every evening for his dinner was now nearly silent, with people standing quietly in line and even the slave at the counter sullen.

Without a bishop, though, the work of the episcopal court ground to a halt; and Theodotus and his fellow deacons were reassigned to delivering food for the poor. This meant a great deal of traipsing through the streets, day and night, which allowed Theodotus an even better sense of the city's mood. It had soured, and it was clear the souring was against Licinius. People stopped paying respect to his statues as they passed, and a few even spit; graffiti calling for Constantine's victory appeared throughout the city, and after a few months the local Imperial administration gave up on removing it. A statue of Licinius, it was said, had been torn down in the night; and though it was set up and shining again when Theodotus saw it the next morning, soldiers with round shields slung on their backs now watched it, sweating under their armor and shooting suspicious glances at passersby.

Again, the crowds in the cathedral dwindled, though this time it was likely as much due to lack of a preacher than fear of persecution. The smaller chapels throughout the city, when Theodotus passed by them, seemed fuller than ever, people unable to fit inside down on their knees praying for deliverance and, increasingly, for Constantine's victory. Persecutor or not, Licinius had lost the confidence of his people.  Living under Galerius and Daza had been frightening, but living under a possible persecutor was an intolerable strain, from which only the Christian Emperor could deliver them.

Finally, the war broke out again in earnest; not mere rumors, but detailed reports soon began pouring into the city, passed eagerly from well-dressed Imperial messengers in tabernae or soldiers in the town squares or slaves from the Palace; they spoke of battle after battle, all, it seemed, lost by Licinius and won by Constantine. Licinius' army of 150,000, it was said, had been routed by Constantine's much smaller force, bearing the sign of the chi-rho on their shields and with the Emperor's divine totem, the labarum (the design of which, it was said, had been given to him in a dream) borne before them. Licinius too, it was whispered, had dreamed of Christ taking the diadem from his head and placing it on a statue of Constantine. Bodies of martyrs, fresh from the slaughter, had spoken, telling of Licinius' defeat, and predicting his imminent demise. 

Most trumpeted of all, however, was the news of the total defeat of the Eastern Emperor's fleet, the ships taken or burned off the Hellespont after a bold tactical maneuver had encircled them. The commander who had originated this strategy, and bravely led his men in boarding Licinius' ships, was not Constantine, though, but a heretofore unknown figure in the East: the Emperor's brilliant, dashing son, a great strategist, and equally brave, a pious Christian like his father, who had prayed on bended knee before a cross just before the battle: a worthy heir to the throne, a new Christian Emperor, a guarantee against any future persecution. His name, it seemed, was Crispus.

At that, Theodotus' thoughts were brought back, with a jolt, to the present. He sat up in bed, and silently mouthed the words: Constantine murdered Crispus. The Emperor killed his son.

Almost angrily, he lay back down again, and tried to force his mind to consider, once again, what the secret might be. 

Neither he, nor anyone else at Antioch, had ever learned for sure how real, or otherwise, Licinius' persecutions might have been; or under what danger, if any, Philogonius had really stood. With Constantine's victory, proclaimed in decrees posted on the walls of buildings everywhere and read aloud in the market-place, a profound, almost feverish euphoria had taken hold of the Christians of Antioch. 

It was just like Constantine's last victory, like the victory of Licinius himself when he had defeated Daza, like the days of joyful disbelief when decrees had been posted and read, first from Galerius, then from Constantine and Licinius, proclaiming the end of the Persecution and freedom for Christians. They all, to a man, relived those tingling emotions: a safety as passionate, as overpowering as any danger. 

As before, people poured into the streets, milling about and shouting, crowds pouring into the cathedral or clustering in the square outside, searching for the tomb where, it was said, Philogonius' bones had been sequestered. Confessor! Martyr! people had shouted, raising their hands in exultation; and when a plausible enough stone receptacle was found (in fact full of bones of martyrs from the Persecution, while Philogonius' still lay in the nekropolis; his bones would not be exhumed and placed in the Cathedral until Eustathius ordered it, months later, after his own election) they had clustered around it, touching, tasting, placing strips of cloth against it to bring home to the sick. Licinius' statues disappeared overnight, spirited away by worried local officials; and when Constantine's new statues were set up, people again clustered in the streets, shouting and weeping for joy.

When, months later, news of Licinius' fate filtered through the city, it raised much less of a stir. Everyone knew he had been taken captive by Constantine, and promised his life; a clemency worthy of a Christian ruler. Despite this, however, Constantine had hanged him, less than a year later, at Thessalonika. Licinius, some said, had attempted to rebel; but those who said it did not express much confidence, and shook their heads as they spoke, and moved on to more pleasant topics. Such actions, regardless of provocation, were not Christian; but they were Imperial. There was very little to say about them.

So what, then, could the secret be? 

Everyone knew Constantine had hanged Licinius after promising him safety; and the majority, whether they admitted it or not, disbelieved his story about treason. Whatever abstract disapproval Christian clergy or laity might hold for the act, it hardly made Constantine less popular. Many, even, now said openly that the rumors of Licinius' persecutions had been vastly exaggerated; that he and his wife had both been pious, building many churches in Nicomedia; that some bishops and priests had acted as Constantine's spies. And then, of course, there could be no doubt that Constantine and Licinius had reigned together for nearly ten years, that what one had done the other had consented to, that Licinius was as much, perhaps, responsible for the end of the Persecution as Constantine.

It was hard to think of any affair so dishonorable as to shock the hardened consciences of the citizens of the Empire, after nearly a century of bloody civil war and persecution. People in the cities, even the Christian bishops who ministered to them, knew what Emperors did. It was nearly impossible to think of anything Licinius might have done, or not done, or even made Constantine do, that might threaten his reputation. 

For, after all, this reputation did not rest on any regard for his private character, but on his very public, very visible acts: his ending of the Persecution, his bringing of stability and peace, his love of the Christians, his building of Churches. Everyone could see the grand new churches built in Antioch, replacing the cramped chapels of yore. What could possibly change that balance?

Even when it becomes general knowledge that Constantine killed his son and wife, it will not threaten him. Everyone, even bishops, will only shrug their shoulders, and say that this is how Emperors behave; and then pass on to the good that he has done otherwise. Constantine must know that...

His thoughts growing blurry from sleep, he propped himself up on his elbow and forced himself to consider possibilities. What could the secret be? Sexual, doctrinal, personal, political...the possibilities were both endless and unsatisfactory.

Yet the more he attempted to consider the options, the more his mind returned unbidden to the same, repeating sentences. He killed his son...he killed his son...he killed his son...

And again, the face of the young man from the coins and statues rose vivid to his mind, and with it the certainty with which he had begun his mission, when Eustathius first woke him from sleep.

It does not matter what the secret is. What matters is that two people have been murdered; and the crime must be uncovered, and the man who has done it brought to repentance.

As the words flowed through his mind, he felt his spirit calming, his heartbeat slowing, drifting downward into sleep. It is just another case in the episcopal court. Just another charge, another task, to atone for my sins. It does not matter who is involved. A slave, or the Emperor...

The Emperor...

And he slept.

When he awoke, it was early morning, and Apollon was standing rigid beside his bed. Theodotus, for a second, looked up at him in confusion, his mind still filled with one last image from his dreams: a golden statue on a pedestal in a marble hall, holding a sword over his head, poised to strike.

Apollon smiled; he was looking more well-rested than Theodotus had seen him since they left Antioch, but also nervous. Just like the day before, he held out a richly-embroidered garment for him; though today, it was only a white tunic. For a moment, Theodotus tried to remember anything else from his dream; but when no further images came, he wordlessly reached out and took the garment.

The halls of the Palace were strangely quiet that morning, with not even slaves in evidence. Their footfalls echoed oddly in the space, as they had when he had wandered those same halls in the night. Apollon seemed mostly recovered from his previous day's experience, managing a decent approximation of his confident, measured gait of the morning before; but Theodotus noticed his eyes carefully looking down corridors and through doors before passing through them. Checking for an ambush. Still, when a task was at hand, the old priest's self-control was remarkable, Theodotus noted. He stumbled over his chlamys for the fifth time: something to remember.

"Everyone is already at the Basilica," Apollon spoke as much to himself as to Theodotus, with a reassuring note in his voice. "But we will not be late. The Emperor will not be there for two hours at least." He paused, and spoke in a slower voice. "Such assemblies are an opportunity for observation and discussion, for those who would rarely if ever see each other otherwise; and for conspiracies." He glanced over at Theodotus with a slight smile. "I thought it best to let you sleep, however. From what I heard from Hosius' servants, you have had enough conspiracy already."

Theodotus glanced over at Apollon thoughtfully. Our roles are reversed since last night. Then, I was the protector. Now, he is almost fatherly to me. He nodded slowly.

The Basilica of Maxentius, when they reached it, nearly took his breath away. He had been in basilicas on many occasions, of course, both as a soldier and as a deacon; but never one as large or impressive as this. The entire square where the Cathedral Church of Antioch, with the bishops' own new basilica beside it, could have fit easily into its antechamber; indeed, it was less a building, he noted, than an entire, covered forum in itself. As he passed through the great doors, the sounds of his feet passing from cobblestone to marble, he felt himself even more outdoors than before. He looked up at the great, domed ceiling, decorated with golden mosaics; and it seemed another heaven, vast as the one outside. 

As he stared upwards, a gentle breeze blew through his hair, bringing a distant, murmuring sound; and he looked down, and for a second stopped straight in his tracks.

The distant, gentle murmur he had heard was in fact the roar of a crowd; a crowd of a size he had rarely if ever seen in his life, even in the amphitheater of Antioch. This would have been sight enough; but even more remarkable than the crowd's size was the crowd itself. This was no undistinguished promiscuous mass of people, but a single, vast creature, its parts arranged in perfect harmony and order, like the parts of a giant or dragon, like the crystalline spheres of a complete cosmos. This was a populus, a mere mob of disorganized people of every rank and class like the crowds in the arena, or even the slightly more ordered mob of the Christian populus in the cathedral. The people and the basilica had, somehow, become one; a universe unto themselves.

At the back, near where he had entered, were the serried ranks of soldiers, clad in glittering mail, polished for the occasion, the red plumes on their helmets like the tails of comets. Dotted among them were the standard-bearers, each bearing a separate symbol of a legion, while the officers stood in front of them, each bearing the armor of his rank. Ahead of them were cavalrymen, clad in the heavy armor recently borrowed from the Persians, their limbs covered in plate, like statues of steel rather than bronze. Ahead of them, and wearing purple, were the officers of the Emperor's personal comites, their mail set off with military cloaks of deep red. 

Ahead of them, the glitter and bright colors were suddenly cut by the ranks of Christian clergy; deacons, then priests, then bishops. In his travels, Theodotus had seen many varieties of customary wear for all these groups, of many cuts and colors; but, as if by magic, here all the bishops wore identical black robes, covered by golden chlamyses decorated with crosses; the priests, behind them, wore cloaks of a somewhat simpler cut; while the deacons wore merely white robes, decorated with simple crosses. 

The juxtaposition was striking, and nearly took Theodotus' breath away; the army of Christ...

Then his gaze shifted forwards again, and he saw the Senators of Rome.

At first, Theodotus merely thought he was looking at Anicius man he had seen in the litter yesterday, the thin body and aged features and white toga fronted with purple: but this one man had unaccountably become hundreds. It was like looking at a magic trick, the unmistakeable tall body and sharp-nosed face of one man reflected in a hundred mirrors. Or rather, it was like looking at a basilica full of statues; for unlike the ranks of Christian clergy, unlike even the soldiers shifting and clanking as they stood, not a single Senator moved an inch, and not a single sound escaped from them.

As they passed up the aisle to find their place, Theodotus saw that his initial impression had been, to a degree, mistaken. They were not as identical as they had seemed at first: some were taller, some shorter, some with paler skin, some darker, some ancient, some merely old; a few, even, wore beards. Yet these small discrepancies did not remove the overall impression of uniformity, but rather increased it, as a cracked tile here or there only highlights the exactness of the pattern on a floor.

Then Theodotus looked past them to the front of the space, and stopped in his tracks again. Constantine is already here. 

At the front of the room, a giant, seated figure sat on a throne, clothed in gold, bearing in one hand a staff and in another an orb. It was a statue; but not the statue of a man. From this distance, it could have been the golden statue of Zeus in the pagan temple that still presided over the forum at Antioch; except that atop the figure's staff was not an eagle, but a cross. 

Theodotus felt a sharp tug on his elbow; turning, he saw Apollon pointing to a row of deacons towards the back, next to a tall, bearded Ethiopian deacon. Theodotus stepped toward it, the entire row shifting to make room for the newcomer; then Apollon grasped his arm again, smiling but whispering in his ear.

"Enjoy the show. But be careful. Remember why we are here." 

Then Apollon stepped away, making his way forward to take his place among the priests. Theodotus took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and as he did the events of the previous day flooded back into his mind. By now Helena has told Constantine everything...perhaps already left the city. After months of isolation, Constantine has called a public meeting; only hours after our meeting with his mother. Did he call this meeting to denounce Eustathius as a traitor? Or to denounce me?

And for the first time since he had left his post during the Persecution and fled into the night, Theodotus felt a sudden twinge of terror; a terror for his life. 

The bishop of Great Antioch is not easily punished, even for the Emperor. But a deacon would make an excellent scapegoat...

"So...you are from Antioch."

Theodotus started. 

The Ethiopian deacon beside him was staring at him; though not at his face. Theodotus himself looked down, and saw that his arms had come up, his hands in the combat-ready position he had learned as a Roman soldier. He dropped them quickly, turning back towards the front to hide his face.

The Ethiopian had seen everything; but instead of commenting, he merely made a hmmm sound in his throat, then turned his head forward as well and waited, his hands clasped in front of him, for Theodotus' response.

After a few moments in which he struggled to master himself, Theodotus spoke. "Yes...yes, I have come from Antioch." He paused, trying desperately to strategize; but his mind seemed frozen. "How...how did you know?"

The Ethiopian made another noise in his throat. "How do you think? You were brought here by Apollon. Everyone at court knows Apollon."

"How...why does everyone know Apollon?" Theodotus mentally chided himself; he was babbling like a fool, not strategizing his questions at all, but coming off like a frightened child. His demeanor did not seem to trouble the Ethiopian, though; when Theodotus shot a glance at him, he was still standing calmly, his arms folded, and looking towards the front of the basilica. 

"He arrived at Constantine's court while Philogonius, the previous bishop of Antioch, was still alive. He was here all through the war with Licinius, and afterwards. Then, he was sent back with Hosius to arrange Eustathius' election; and back here again through the preparations for the Great Council." 

Through the haze in his mind, a single word stabbed Theodotus like a blade. Licinius...

 The Ethiopian shrugged. "I have been here only since the Council. But many speak of him. I say what I have heard."

Theodotus' mind was reeling. Why did I never think to ask Apollon about his time at court? How he knew so much about Constantine and the rest? And why did he never tell me he had served Philogonius? 

A single thought, half-formed, floated to the surface. Licinius was right. Philogonius was in secret communication with Constantine...

He looked up; the Ethiopian was openly staring at him, a half-worried, half-amused expression floating on his face. 

Theodotus struggled to come up with a response. "I...of course." He stopped. Would the old woman have considered that a lie?

The Ethiopian looked around, then pulled a large wine-skin out of the folds of his tunic. He handed it to Theodotus.

"You should drink. You do not look well, my friend." He frowned and looked Theodotus up and down. "It is a long time to stand in heavy robes, waiting for the Emperor. I have learned to prepare."

Theodotus took the wine-skin gingerly. The Ethiopian smiled. "It is not wine. They call it posca; it quenches thirst better than wine."

Theodotus glanced at him quizzically. The Ethiopian chuckled. "You are not the only one to pass from the military camp to the Church." 

Theodotus smiled too, and took a swig; the taste was stinging and familiar, calling to his memory the smell of sweat, the pain in his feet, and the heat through his armor on many long marches. He handed it back to the Ethiopian, who stowed it again in his robes.

"I am known as Theodotus."

"I am known as Sustenatus. Sometimes. My parents named me Yared."

He looked at Theodotus expectantly. "I am a deacon of Eustathius, bishop of Great Antioch."

The Ethiopian continued to look at him. "I serve the bishop Alexander. Of Alexandria in Egypt." 

Theodotus turned his head. An Egyptian...

Yared chuckled again. "Yes. Your bishop and I have worked much together these past years. Opposing the Arian devils...and more." He paused. "Your bishop informed mine you would be returning with Apollon...and asked me to asist you."

Theodotus considered that. Eustathius' strategems are broader than I thought. 

Then, despite himself: What have I gotten myself into?

"What does Alexander think of...what has happened?"

There was a long silence. Theodotus glanced over at Yared; to his surprise, the tall man's lip was twisted, and when he at last spoke, it was with unmistakeable bitterness.

 "Alexander...feels that all that has happened...only confirms his misgivings from the first. Against Hosius. And against Eustathius."

Theodotus gaped; this was the last thing he had expected. From what he had heard in Antioch, Eustathius and Alexander were the closest of allies. Had they not cooperated against Arius and in organizing and running the Great Council of Nicaea? 

Yared glanced at him, and his bitter expression was relieved with amusement. "You are surprised. But Alexander is an old man...and bishop of an ancient see. He has a strong sense of...decorum. Of how things are to be done...and were, he says, before the Persecution dissolved the canons."

Theodotus shook his head in frank bewilderment. "I'm sorry...I wasn't even a Christian before the Persecution. All I know is that Eustathius is pious...and Hosius. Surely, his devotion to the martyrs--"

Yared laughed. "See? Even in that, you show your ignorance. To revere martyrs...martyrs who survived...is seen by many older bishops as dangerous. Their claim to sanctity was used in times past to undermine the authority of the bishops, the canons and orders of the Sees. Alexander is suspicious of those who did not flee when they had the chance...he does not permit them to be granted special honors. Then, too, he believes strongly in pardoning those who lapsed...and that only the bishop can grant the Church's pardon. Alexander is a tolerant man. He interceded for Arius before Peter, to have his excommunication rescinded.  It was only when Arius attacked him publicly as a heretic, and appealed to other bishops for support, that he was forced to excommunicate him once again. And--"

Yared looked over at Theodotus and stopped speaking abruptly. "But I apologize. You know nothing of these things. I had imagined that someone sent by Eustathius as his personal envoy to Constantine would be well versed in...such things. But I see I was wrong."\

Now it was Theodotus' turn to laugh. "Yes, you were wrong. I know nothing of politics, or theology. And I am not Eustathius' envoy; merely a worker in the episcopal court. He did not send me to speak with bishops or Emperors; he sent me to uncover the truth about Crispus' death."

Yared seemed for the first time taken aback. He stared ahead of himself for a long time, as a stir began moving through the crowd, like a ripple in waves. Constantine is coming.

Theodotus turned around like the rest, craning his head towards the entrance. Could that flash of gold--

He was surprised by Yared's hand on his shoulder. The tall man was looking at him intently.

"I apologize. I see I misjudged both you and Eustathius. That is a choice worthy of a bishop. But..." He looked around him. "If what you say is true, I will help you. And the first way I can help you is to tell you what your own bishop did not. What you will need to know..."

A roar came from outside; the roar of a crowd. Amid the noise, he heard the sound of acclamations, repeated over and over again: "Constantine!" "Victorius Augustus!" "Unconquerable!" "Glory to the Emperor!" "Forever Augustus!"

He wanted to turn; but Yared continued to speak into his face, now almost whispering in a quick, soft voice. "Before the war, Alexander was already planning a council, in consultation with the bishop of Rome...not to condemn Arius, but to expel the bishops that supported him from their sees. Eusebius, the Metropolitan of Palestine...and the other Eusebius, bishop at Licinius' court in Nicomedia. Licinius prevented him."

Theodotus turned his head. The front of the procession was coming into view: soldiers in golden armor, bearing standards and the labarum, a golden spear turned into a golden cross, decorated with a chi-rho, with painted portraits of Constantine and his son hung from its arms. The soldiers, he noted, treated the object with great reverence, their eyes fixed on it, taking great care not to let it droop or fall.

Even as this Imperial procession wove into view, though, Yared continued to whisper ecclesiastical secrets in his ear. It was a strange contrast. 

"When Licinius was defeated, the way was open...but then Hosius came. He was sent by Constantine as his envoy, and he promised assistance in the name of the Christian Emperor. He meddled in everything, changed every plan. Antioch was in turmoil. Hosius helped Eustathius become bishop there, transfering his see from Berytus to Great Antioch. Alexander was furious...he holds to the canons, rejects bishops moving from see to see. Eusebius had done the same..." 

Behind the soldiers came high military officials, clad in armor with purple military cloaks over them; then purple-clad officials, the representatives of Constantine's court. In their midst, dwarfed and surrounded, were three children, pale and dark-haired, silent and staring, clad awkwardly in purple togas. 

Constantine's children. And Fausta's. Looking them over, Theodotus felt a sudden, unwonted twinge of pathos: less than three days past, their father killed their mother...

"Alexander doubted Constantine...distrusted him, like Licinius. The Emperor tried to defuse the conflict, make peace between him and Eusebius; Alexander refused. But Hosius reassured him, again and again, about the Emperor's intentions...promised results impossible achieve without his assistance. At last the Emperor permitted a council to be summoned to Ancyra. Alexander had a clear majority, many bishops signed promising to vote for Eusebius' condemnation. Then Constantine changed everything again. Without warning, he moved the council to Nicaea...to the see of Arius' ally. Neither Alexander nor the legates from Rome were allowed to preside; Eustathius led the council's proceedings, assisted by Hosius. And Alexander received nothing of what he was promised. The council condemned Arius...but both Eusebiuses escaped."

Among the purple-clad officials, a few older men stood out, clad in simpler white garb that Theodotus did not recognize. Behind them, though, came, to his surprise, Christian clergy; three priests and three bishops, walking with measured stride as if in processing in to Mass.

"After the Council, Eustathius came to Alexander and apologized...said that he too had not anticipated what had happened...that he had believed that Eusebius would be condemned as well. It was Constantine who had done it...Constantine who had protected the heretics. Even Crispus, Eustathius said, had been blindsided by this decision...objected to it to his father, angrily. Hosius, though, did not apologize; he was already away, following Constantine's court. Within months, it is true, Constantine had exiled the Eusebius from Nicomedia, without the authority of a council...at Hosius' persuasion, he said...but the other Eusebius still prospers. He is here at court. But never again, Alexander swore, would he trust Hosius."

Theodotus gasped. One of the three bishops was Hosius. He was striding confidently forward, his face hard, looking neither to the right or the left.

Then the whole crowd went silent as one; and Constantine was there. 

Theodotus' first, confused impression was that a man was on fire. A second later, and his eyes had recognized what he was seeing: a man with dozens or hundreds of jewels hung on him, from his diadem to his sandals, reflecting in a thousand facets the full light of the sun pouring in from the open doorway. 

Then Constantine passed from the full light into the shadows of the interior; and he saw only a man in a purple robe sewn with jewels. As the man passed towards him, striding forward with a confident military gait, Theodotus saw that the man was both tall and burly, with a large chest and muscled legs; then that he had a broad face, and a long, sharp nose. It was only as he passed by that Theodotus saw that the hair beneath the diadem was grey.

The entire assembly stood in silence until Constantine reached the front of the room; then he turned, and sat down in a small chair set beneath his own seated statue. The figures with him had already spread themselves around him, in front of other chairs. After he had sat down, each one briefly prostrated themselves before him, kissing the marble floor, then sat down as well. Constantine's children, meanwhile, had arranged themselves around the Emperor's throne, standing stiffly at attention, looking out at the assembly with wide, staring eyes.

Then there was silence; a silence that echoed with the distant murmurs of cries and acclamations from outside. For nearly five minutes, the assembly waited in silence. Then, with a sharp clatter, one of the white-robed men stood up and began speaking. He was short, thin, and grey-bearded, and his voice was both high and piercing, so that it carried through the huge space like the quiet, sharp tone of an instrument.  

"I am about to speak the most august praises of Constantine, who surpasses the Emperors of all the ages before him by as much as these Emperors themselves surpassed merely private men; and I am going to speak it in a gathering of exulting and rejoicing people, made glad by..."

Theodotus took the opportunity to glance at Yared again. The man was still staring at him intently; and after a second, Theodotus nodded. I understand. After studying him for a moment, Yared nodded as well.

"For the very greatness of the joy coming upon us like a wave prevents its being comprehended, but so abundant and pure a worthy greatness challenges from without the breadth of our hearts, that this greatness not be understood to be more great than it is true. Truly they are not rejoicing over merely ordinary goods who have no measure for their exultation..."

I should listen carefully to this speech, so as to understand why Constantine called this assembly. But for all his efforts, Theodotus found it nearly impossible to follow the flurry of words coming from the little man. They seemed to repeat themselves endlessly, reworded variants of the same overlapping themes: greatness, joy, security, peace, victory, infinity, divinity. 

"No, no, let the course of this happy reign go on forever! Nor let those who always meditate on divine things pay any attention to the limits of human things. Certainly we have not desired in vain, we who, when we wish for the very greatest things, achieve them not more benevolently than securely: for it is because of the heavenly favor towards these Emperors that there is as certain a hope of obtaining what we desire as there is a free liberty of wishing."

If I were a theologian, perhaps all this would mean something to me. He glanced at Yared, who was now listening intently, a frown on his face. Perhaps Eustathius' downfall is right now being proclaimed, in some coded form, that Yared and Apollon understand, but I do not.

He sighed deep in his chest, closing his eyes as he did so. Why did Eustathius send me to such a place? Here, I am worse than useless...I am like a child among adults, incapable of understanding anything being said or done. Capable only of being the cause of amusement to those who understand...

As he did so, the face of the old man swam into his mind, as it always did, and with it the simple code that he had lived by; that he had thought Theodotus to live by. We are deacons. Do not worry about the affairs of the great ones. Do your duty, for Christ, and leave the rest to God.

He opened his eyes. I am not here to do politics, but to uncover sin. And with that, he allowed his mind to slip away from the assembly, following its own course, considering rather what Yared had told him.

Licinius was not a pagan persecutor; but he was mixed up with ecclesiastical affairs. In the war, and before it, Constantine had his bishops in the East, and Licinius had his. Hosius was a means by which Constantine recruited bishops to his side...bishops like Eustathius and Alexander, and Philogonius, through Apollon...by promising them victory over their enemies in the Church.

And Crispus...Crispus was involved in all this. He sided with Alexander and Eustathius...and was angry when Constantine broke his word, and did not give them what he had promised. The deposition of the two Eusebiuses and their allies...one of them is here at court. And the other is in exile; but was bishop of Nicomedia, where Licinius reigned.

Licinius...who was killed suddenly, months after Constantine defeated him, and promised him his life...

As he considered, for the first time, a whisper of a motive came into his mind...a motive much stranger than any he had imagined. And with it, a secret...

"There is only one way in which Rome could possibly be happier than she is today, when she sees Constantine her preserver, when she sees these most blessed Caesars, rejoicing in her midst: and that is that they should reign over her forever, so that the Republic would always stand in the same blessedness as it does this day, with the happy rejoicings of the people proclaim the joyful news that her most august savior lives, and watches over her in the favor and power of God."

The little man sat down; and there was another silence. All throughout the speech, Constantine had sat still and impassive, neither frowning nor smiling. As the speech ended, however, the ghost of a smile appeared on his face, and he nodded. The little man beamed in response, and stood up again, giving a deep bow, like a performer in the circus being applauded. All else remained silent.

Theodotus turned to Yared, and began to open to his mouth. "I have--"

The next moment, though, all the breath had left his body; for he had heard another voice, a very familiar one, booming from the front of the hall. 

He turned his head rapidly around. It was true. Hosius was now standing and speaking: delivering the second speech at the assembly.

"I am going to speak a panegyric of a different sort: a new strain of praises raised by an unworthy servant of divinity to hymn the more divine virtues of our most holy Emperor Constantine..." 

Of all the wonders of this day, none were as strange to Theodotus as this. The Hosius who stood stiffly above his seat, one arm extended, his voice booming and echoing throughout the entire space, hardly seemed like the same man he had met and spoken with the day before. Every trace of doubt, of pain, of irresolution, had disappeared from his face and posture; and his words flowed with perfect composure, one after the other, like the words of the orators in the theater in Antioch.

"For of all the joys of this blessed day, of all the praises raised in the hearts of the Senate and people of Great Rome, none can compare to the gladness in hearts of the worshipers of God, still remembering those blessed and recent events by which their peace and liberty with security was restored to them after great troubles. Does not Rome herself remember, feeling still in her heart the scars of the savage rage of tyranny against the power of the Most High? Does not Rome herself rejoice, seeing now her children gathered in security at the feet of their savior, whole and safe and freed from fear, and raising to God the sacrifice of true praise and thanksgiving at their deliverance?" 

Hosius paused, and after a moment, turned his face away from the crowd, towards Constantine. His eyes glittered.

"Do not you yourself, O great Augustus, remember the victory with which God favored you over tyranny? Surely he most of all, with the clarity of his great intellect, sees in his heart the unspeakable visitation of the true God heralding his victory, sees the great signs and wonders by which divinity, ruling in his favor, overthrew the tyrant and granted him success in his endeavors. And surely he, most of all, understands the reason why God granted him this favor: and knows that it was not for any virtue of his own, not for any power, any understanding, but solely for the safety of his own people, the people of the true God, that the judgment of God was granted in his favor."

Theodotus gasped; for Constantine had, for the first time, visibly shifted in his seat, moving his shoulders in an odd, uncomfortable motion, as if shaking off a fly. Though only a small motion, it was more impactful than any shout or blow could have been; it rippled outwards through the assembly, as rank after rank of spectators shifted and reacted in turn, until for a moment the whole, spectacular order of the assembly seemed dissolved in chaos: a chaos slight and silent, but definite. 

Then Theodotus understood. Hosius is saying something new.

"I myself remember with great clarity, unworthy servant that I am, my intellect far from the sublime height of the Emperor's understanding, both the savage rage of tyranny and the the unspeakable favors of God manifested through our great Augustus' deliverance. And I will continue to remember these favors as I leave his side and return to my own land, bringing with me to the people of Great Hispania the invisible presence of the unspeakable benevolence of the Emperor to all his people, and most of all to the people of the true God, a benevolence manifested publicly through so many acts of beneficence, so many laws and judgments in our favor, so many salvation-bringing deeds."

Again, Constantine shifted in his seat; and now, turned his head to look directly at Hosius. There was a frown on his face. 

Again, despite himself, Theodotus gasped. Hosius is announcing his own departure. He is leaving court, and returning to Spain. 

He is leaving Constantine.

"What mouth could possibly enumerate all these deeds? What tongue could possibly sum up the depths of the Emperor's mercy and love towards his people? Surely he himself, most of all, in his heart contemplates these deeds, and gives thanks for them to God, recognizing them as themselves the gifts of divine power, aimed at his salvation as much as that of the people." 

Constantine was now staring at Hosius, leaning slightly forward in his chair; and Hosius was staring back, speaking not the crowd but directly to Constantine.

"Surely he himself, seeing these deeds and their effects, recognizes the imprints of the divine power, and humbly in his intellect prostrates himself before the Most High Emperor of the heavens, the omnipotent Word of God, one with his Father in power and honor, giving thanks to him and offering along with his Empire his own soul as a pleasing sacrifice, a sacrifice completed and purified through the holy rites that take away all sins, and bring with them true knowledge beyond human intellect."

Constantine reacted to this almost as to a blow; he nearly stood up, but restrained himself, looking to the side. Hosius, though, continued to stare.

"Only when this sacrifice has been completed, will he himself, the greatest of mortals, have truly made his kingdom secure--both his earthly kingdom of the Roman Empire and other kingdom of his own soul--from all the threats of savage tyranny--the tyranny not only of earthly tyrants but of the spiritual powers of wickedness that tempt the souls of rulers to destruction through tyrannical deeds of violence--and in so doing gained the power to ascend on high in imitation of his exemplar, achieving at last the true salvation of the Heavenly Kingdom. Amen."

Then Hosius sat down; and there was silence. Now, though, the silence was alive and tingling, filled to the bursting with the shock and wonder and fear and anger and excitement of every person in the assembly. By his side, Yared was himself frowning, shaking his head slowly from side to side, mouthing the words: "What has he done...?"

As for himself, Theodotus felt he had only understood the smallest part of what Hosius had said, and its true significance. This much was clear, though: that Hosius had just announced, without warning, and in the most public manner possible, his own departure from Constantine's court. And by this act, he had removed the only real protection for Eustathius and his allies from the Emperor...

Another panegyrist had already risen and begun his speech; but then stopped, abruptly, in the middle of a sentence, gaping. The Emperor himself had stood up. The panegyrist wavered for a moment, then sat down again. But Constantine had already grasped his sons' hands, two in his right hand one and one in his left, and begun walking back down the central aisle. After only a brief hesitation, Hosius and the other officials rose from their seats and followed him.

As they passed close to him, Theodotus studied, more intently than before, the Emperor's features: but they were again a stiff mask, showing no emotion. Then he looked down at the children, struggling in their togas to keep up with their father's strong stride. The oldest, no older than fifteen, was openly fuming, his brows knitted; the youngest, a true child, was staring around him with wide eyes, and barely keeping from tripping. The middle child, however, arrested Theodotus' attention the most: though plainly not an adolescent he was striding smoothly and precisely, matching Constantine stride for stride, looking straight ahead with the same removed, neutral expression on his face as on his father's. 

The face itself, though, was unmistakeably that of his mother's: the dead woman Theodotus had seen in his dream...

Then Constantine was past him, receding in the distance; and the assembly dissolved in chaos, priests, bishops, deacons, soldiers, and officials not processing calmly out, but moving suddenly in every direction, accosting each other in whispered conversations. 

Theodotus turned to Yared; but he was already gone, striding towards a knot of Egyptian clerics. Theodotus turned around, then, looking for Apollon; the old priest, though, was nowhere to be seen amid the throng. Hesitantly, he began walking towards the front of the Basilica, searching...

"Theodotus?"

He spun around; but it was not Apollon who had called his name. There were two slaves, dressed in black, standing just behind him. When he turned back around, two more blocked his path. 

His blood ran cold. So it has started...

"You are Theodotus? The deacon of Antioch?" The leader of the slaves, a pale man with an indefinite accent, repeated, looking him up and down. 

For a second, Theodotus simply stared at him, his pulse pounding. Here was the moment he had waited for since the day he had deserted his cohort in Antioch...the moment when they would at last find him. His hand involuntarily reached towards his empty eye socket, grasping...

But there was no need for any struggle this time. It had happened before; and this time, he would get it right.

He bowed to the slave, like a panegyrist to an Emperor, gratified to see the shock the gesture caused.

 

"Yes, I am Theodotus, the deacon of Antioch. You wish me to go with you?"

The slave nodded. "Yes." He studied Theodotus for a moment, confusion on his features. "Follow me."

And Theodotus followed.