Death of the Son, Episode IX: Flight and Fight

Death of the Son, Episode IX

Flight and Fight

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

Theodotus followed two black-robed slaves through a whirling, dissolving mass of white-clad bishops, priests, and deacons, mailclad soldiers, togaed Senators, and robed officials of every type. The sense of chaos in the vast space of the Basilica of Galerius was overwhelming, and entirely different from the rigid order that had unified the assembly only a few moments before.

Something has happened, Theodotus knew; and so did all the other powerful men racing to leave, pushing and shoving and maneuvering around each other like frightened animals. 

But what had happened? The powerful Spanish bishop Hosius, favored advisor of the Emperor for years, had delivered a speech to Constantine's face that had in some way challenged or upset him; he had announced his imminent departure back to Spain; and the Emperor had suddenly left, ending the assembly hours before it had been expected. This was not a crisis of state in any typical sense: but it was nevertheless clearly a crisis.

One of the two slaves behind him touched his arm, steering him slightly around a knot of worried-looking Imperial officials, wearing Phrygian caps and whispering in agitated voices. One of them shot him an angry look, as if to say: What have you Christians done this time?

Theodotus fought simultaneous impulses to laugh and freeze in terror. What have we done?

The absurdity of his situation won out; he laughed to himself, loud and shrill and utterly inaudible in the chaos, as his guides steered him around an even more worried-looking gaggle of Christian priests, past a stiff, bejeweled Senator surrounded by his slaves, and around a gold-robed bishop in anxious consultation with his lower clergy. Some of the most powerful and influential people in the word were panicking like small children because another man had flinched and walked out of a room; what could be more absurd than this? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man clad in gold from head to toe--gold slippers, gold hat, gold chains covered in rubies and emeralds on his chest, with gold rings on his fingers--standing in stark staring fear as people milled around him, chewing on a finger. He laughed all the louder, nearly losing his step and stumbling into one of the slaves in front of him.

Theodotus, though, knew as well as anyone what was frightening them all. The Emperor had been upset. Now, anything might happen.

He laughed again, earning another touch from the slave behind him. The unfamiliar touch filled him with panic again, and he barely resisted the urge to turn and strike the slave in the throat.

That is what I did last time...

And in his mind's eye, the great basilica, filled with powerful men in purple and cloth of gold, dissolved, to be replaced by the dirty streets of Antioch, filled with men and women in common cloth, walking all together in unison, their hands bound behind them. And Theodotus was among them...

He laughed again. There is no difference between these two groups. Rich men in cloth of gold, clergy invested with divine authority, Senators with togas and ancient names...before the wrath of the Emperor, we are all equally helpless. 

And here he was, being led once again to the slaughter. He laughed again, more harshly, and turned his head to watch a group of military officials, their hands on their swords, strive in vain to keep together against the crushing crowd...

They are right to be afraid.

Diocletian had Christians in the highest positions of the Palace and the military. Then he had been upset--some said because of an oracle, some merely because some slaves had made the sign of the cross during a sacrifice--and Christians throughout the Empire had died in agony. There had been a Christian eunuch in the palace at Antioch--Theodotus could no longer recall his name, but he remembered vividly his pompousness and self-importance when giving orders, and the way he waved his hands; and he remembered equally well the frightened, mouse-like expression on his face as Theodotus had clapped irons on him, and the way he had screamed and screamed and screamed, high and shrill and woman-like, in the arena as--

The two slaves in front of him had stopped to let a parcel of deacons pass by. Theodotus stopped as well, and considered. Since Constantine and Licinius had risen to power, Christians had been tolerated, praised, elevated to positions of power...but why should that last? In a heartbeat, if he wished, Constantine could take away everything he had given. 

Perhaps he will begin with me. 

Then, he had been among the last to suffer. The old man had died in his sleep during the summer heat; so Theodotus had taken his place, each night walking through the silent streets bearing the old woman's carefully-wrapped parcels of food and wine, creeping down the stairs into the prison, pressing the bribe into a soldier's sweaty palms, pushing the fat parcels through the thin bars into the emaciated hands and faces of the martyrs, trying to suppress his own terror and disgust at their filthy bodies and matted hair, each time wondering when his own time would come...

The slaves in front of him had disappeared; and after a moment, he realized that they had passed through a small, open door leading out of the basilica's main chamber. The slave behind him prodded him gently again, and he followed, twisting his head one last time to take in the splendors of the chamber, the great golden statue of Constantine, and the whirling, silk-clad masses. 

Apollon, Yared, Hosius...no one he recognized was anywhere in sight. He wondered if anyone had seen them take him, and then if anyone would care. The old woman had died while he was in prison, though he had not known it at the time. It had seemed terribly unjust to him, when he allowed himself to consider it years later, that both had died of natural causes. They should have had the name and honors of a martyr, not me.

Another prod, or rather a shove, from the slave behind him, and he had stumbled through the door into a darker area to which his eyes struggled to adjust. The slaves crowded in behind him, pushing him further forward, while the slaves in front tried to back up; and he felt his body tense despite himself, his pulse increasing, his hands reaching out to--

"Please, please--come now--please, children--this is really--give us some space! Leave! NOW!"

Theodotus froze. The voice from the shadows in front of him was not that of a soldier or Imperial official; it was deep, but strained and oddly petulant, like that of a child. It was also strangely familiar...

The slaves around him had likewise frozen; and, after a rough series of shoves during which Theodotus narrowly restrained himself from lashing out once again, all four slaves had backed their way out of the small chamber, shutting the door behind them. It was only then, with the sunlight shut out except for a small crack under the door, that Theodotus' eyes had adjusted enough to see the man in front of him.

It was not, this time, the Governor of Syria; nor even the leader of his cohort, ready for revenge. It was, instead, a rather burly man in untidy bishop's robes, biting his lips in obvious nervousness. 

Theodotus struggled for a moment with recognition, staring at the man's pinched, dark eyes. "Eusebius...?"

Eusebius of Caesarea smiled, an odd expression torn between feigned confidence and poorly disguised nervousness. Theodotus had to fight a sudden urge to laugh.

"So you...you remember me," Eusebius said, in what Theodotus assumed was intended for an amused drawl. The man is terrified. 

Eusebius' eyes glanced rapidly over Theodotus' face, then shot down to the ground, and the man took a deep breath. "I...I wanted to say...well, as you may know--I--"

Theodotus shook his head in amazement. He is terrified of me.

But in his days he had dealt with very few powerful bishops, and virtually no purported heretics--but many frightened suspects. In a heartbeat, he shifted his persona from that for which he had been prepared--the bound suspect in the Imperial court--to the investigator. "Eusebius of Caesarea," he said, in a new, brusque voice. "I am a deacon and envoy of the bishop of Great Antioch. How dare you send slaves to lead me off like a common criminal? What are your intentions?"

Eusebius flinched and took a full step backwards in fear, as Theodotus did his best not to smile. "I...I...you misunderstand my intentions, deacon." Eusebius shifted his eyes onto Theodotus' face, blinking rapidly. "I have not summoned you to threaten you, or, or--I have brought you here to save you. To...to repay a debt, and show your bishop that, though I may be on the verge of triumphing over him, I am not the lawless heretic he thinks." 

Theodotus' composed and neutral features, as often with suspects, seemed to grant Eusebius new confidence; his voice noticeably deepened as he spoke, his words coming more smoothly and rhetorically. "In reality, deacon, as you would have found if you had read my works against your bishop, it is he who is the heretic, with no respect for the most revered authorities of the Church, ancient authors and texts and the divine Scriptures themselves and the most foundational philosophical principles upon which all inquiry into the nature of divinity depends. Though he boasts in the antiquity of his see, his lack of understanding and novelties in beliefs renders him a mere interloper in--"

Theodotus held up his hand; and to his surprise, Eusebius stopped speaking immediately. He really is acting like a suspect at trial. "Thank you, Your Holiness. If you have only brought me here to discuss theological differences between yourself and my bishop, I would suggest speaking to him directly."

Eusebius frowned. "Yes...yes, of course," he said, looking down. "Only--well, he may not be a bishop much longer. With Hosius gone--and Constantine reading my books--and, well, the insult that your bishop offered to the Emperor's mother through you--"

Eusebius stopped abruptly; and for the first time smiled fully at Theodotus. The expression was not pleasant. "You have caused quite a stir here in the few days since your arrival, Theodotus, Deacon of Great Antioch. Everyone says you have a gift from God; and perhaps that is true. Perhaps you really were sent here by God. Not for Eustathius' purposes, but for God's: to ensure the overthrow of heresy, and the triumph of the truth." He leaned forward towards Theodotus, who had to suppress an urge to step backwards. "Do you understand, Deacon? In a few days, you have destroyed everything for which your bishop has worked these past three years." His face was now only inches away from Theodotus' own; Theodotus could see the veins in his eyes, the grey hairs in his beard, the pinched, inflamed wrinkles at his temples...

"And not just your bishop. That whole gang of pompous ignoramuses that had the gall to think that they could sit in judgment over scholars and servants of the truth...that just because they happened to have connived their ways onto seats of the Apostles, just because they could bully more bishops into signing their scraps of paper, they could simply overrule all the wisdom and tradition I have so carefully guarded and set forward through my life and works. Persuade the Emperor to forget the services performed for him by his most loyal servants; send Eusebius the Great, bishop of Nicomedia, unjustly into exile. Now all of their plans have gone up in smoke. Because of you."

He leaned back; but Theodotus continued to stare at him. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I...I have not been a cleric for very long. These matters are all very foreign to me. But I can assure you that I was not sent here to ensure your victory, or the victory of your allies. I was sent here to uncover sin, and bring repentance."

For a long moment, the two men merely stared at each other. 

"Yes, well, you are a mere deacon. What do you know of God's intentions?" Eusebius said finally, and with a tinge of annoyance in his voice. "Nevertheless, the reason why I summoned you here is to tell you that last night, after being visited by his mother, the Emperor issued orders calling for your arrest; and I have no doubt that after Hosius' performance this morning those orders will be carried out with dispatch." He looked at the ground. "There are soldiers waiting outside this basilica to take you." 

Theodotus took a deep breath to steady himself; but oddly, this information caused him no fear. His mind was no longer focused on memories of the past; it was busy unraveling a mystery. He looked at Eusebius in silence.

Eusebius looked up at him again; but seemed steadied by Theodotus' lack of fear. "I cannot protect you, and risk angering the Emperor. Nor could Hosius do anything for you now. I recommend...if you can evade the soldiers, you should go to Sylvester. The bishop here, in Rome. He can protect you." Eusebius seemed to wait for Theodotus to respond; but he said nothing. "Constantine has worked very hard to win over the people and clergy of Rome...not to mention the Senate. I do not believe he would--but we will see." He shrugged. "It is your best chance. Sylvester maintains the old traditions of sanctuary; and he has condemned me and my allies, and supported Eustathius. I believe he would protect you."

Theodotus cast his mind back to the tiny, formidable bishop who had so overawed Hosius the day before. He nodded slowly. "Yes, I believe you are right. I have met him." 

Eusebius smiled sarcastically. "Of course. I'm not surprised. Your friends have been very adept at gaining control of the Apostolic thrones. One might wonder why they had such need of ecclesiastical authority, if their arguments from Scripture and reason were as strong as they pretended..." He shook his head. "But that is not the point. You should go to Sylvester immediately, before the assembly is fully dissolved, and before the soldiers realize you are no longer within. The Emperor has gifted Sylvester the palace of the Laterani; but I understand that he carries out only official duties there, and continues to reside in the traditional place of the bishops of Rome, the Church of Pudentiana. That is fortunate for you, as it lies not far from here, perhaps a mile northeast. If you can evade the soldiers here, you should have no trouble reaching it." 

Eusebius turned away from him. "There is a small exit near here that leads in that direction. It may be guarded; but most likely the soldiers are at the main exits, looking for you amid the throng."

Theodotus nodded. "I understand."

Eusebius turned back to him, and smiled, a little more pleasantly this time. "Then I will take my leave of you. Farewell, deacon."

"You did something, didn't you?" Theodotus said, abruptly. There seemed little point in suppressing his suspicions now. "During the Persecution. Hosius all but accused you of it, as did Apollon...but I thought it was mere slander against a theological opponent. But now you're here, helping me escape...I'm certain of it."

Eusebius was still staring at Theodotus' face, but his smile had vanished.

"You would not do this for Eustathius...let alone to uphold ecclesiastical law, or prove yourself to those who already regard you as a heretic beyond salvation. And you're here in Rome, far from Palestine, to persuade the Emperor to favor your faction, and hurt Eustathius and his friends. Why would you risk all that by defying Constantine to help one of Eustathius' deacons? You regard me as dangerous, and know that I will do everything in my power to further my bishop's ends. You haven't even tried to persuade me otherwise. So why...?"

Eusebius continued to stare at him, blankly; his eyes were far away. "I think," he said, "You underestimate--"

"Most likely you helped persuade the Emperor to arrest me. How else would you even know it had happened? And then you grew guilty, and had second thoughts, and thought to assuage your conscience by helping me escape. But what did you do then?" 

Theodotus studied the man in front of him carefully, from the embroidered sandals on his feet, to the rich robe, black silk with gold thread, onto which silver crosses had been carefully sewn, and over it a threadbare omophoron untidily thrown over his shoulders. "I doubt very much you were a traditor, and handed over the sacred vessels to the soldiers. Such people are more deceptive or more ashamed than you, and even in the most remote places were known and remembered. I doubt even more that you would ever publicly sacrifice, in the sight of your fellow clerics and the Roman officials. More likely you were captured, and in private gave information that led to someone else's arrest or capture. Someone important, for them to let you go: your bishop or your teacher. Whatever the case, though, it was not out of malice that you fell, but because they terrified you, frightened you again and again past all reason." 

Theodotus shook his head with decision. "It is not a great sin. Once confessed, it is easily absolved."

Eusebius shouldered his way past him, pushing open the door into the main hall again. The light was blinding; but when Theodotus turned his head, he saw that Eusebius, too, had turned his head back towards him, his face dark as it projected against the light. 

"If they ask me where you have gone...I will tell them."

Then the door was shut again, and Theodotus was back in darkness. He took a deep breath, allowing the fear to flood over him for a second; then, once more, forced his emotions aside and allowed his mind to take charge. 

I have perhaps fifteen minutes to reach Sylvester before the soldiers here realize I am gone. I will have to move quickly, and keep to the back streets. The speed, in theory, would prove no problem; in the marching pace he had been taught in the army, a legionary carrying nearly a hundred pounds of equipment was expected to be able to march more than 20 miles in five daylight hours. Though he had not carried out a full march in more than ten years, he still kept up a decent pace on his daily walks to and from the episcopal court; and, more to the point, he would be all but unburdened, particularly if he shed the unwieldy chlamys Apollon had given him and travelled merely in his tunic. Unclasping the broach and dropping the garment noiselessly on the ground, he found the small door, most likely meant for slaves, in the wall of the storeroom and immediately, without waiting, pushed it open again.

The sunlight outside was even more blinding than the light in the main chamber. He did not wait for his sight to clear, however, but immediately began stepping forward rapidly, his chest out, his hands by his sides, and his steps measured out according to the rapid, rattling rhythm that their commanders had called pleno gradu, but which they had called merely cito, or, more often, by obscenities. It was a familiar music.

Unfortunately, this music was interrupted, after only a few moments, by a sudden impact: there was a man in his path, holding a circular shield with the symbol of Legio XVI stamped across it, with his other hand reaching for a spatha sword at his waist. 

Theodotus reacted as he had been trained. Slipping easily around the outstretched shield, he reached his left hand downwards to grapple with the sword arm while his right hand grabbed for the man's face. His fingers found the man's eyes: and, with a scream, the man flailed backwards, dropping his sword onto the ground and bringing his shield up to cover his face. As his opponent stumbled onto his knees, Theodotus snatched up the sword and stepped around behind him, bringing it slashing down onto the back of the man's unprotected neck.

It was only as the sword descended that something--a small voice in the back of his head, or a slight tingle in his hands--told Theodotus that something was wrong. It was several moments later that this sense of wrongness crystallized itself into the sudden insistence that he should not kill the man; and, with a slight turn of the wrist, he shifted the direction of his stroke, bringing the pommel of the spatha down with full force onto the man's helmet. The impact caused a ripple of pain to flow through his whole body, and jarred his hand backwards; but he did not drop the sword.

It took only a single further moment to confirm that his enemy was, for the moment, dispatched; the next moment, he had spun around, scanning his environment for further threats.

He was standing just outside the basilica towards the northeast, facing into a side-street and a row of buildings; an old man and a slave were emerging out of one of the buildings to his left; and there were no more soldiers in sight.

Satisfied, Theodotus spun around and resumed his march; but a second later stopped straight, breathing hard. What have I done? 

Struck with a sudden panic entirely unlike his calm throughout the encounter, he spun around and raced back to the prone soldier. The man was lying sprawled on his back, one leg bent behind him, his shield on the ground, blood pooling slowly from beneath his helmet.

For a moment, Theodotus merely stared down at the soldier. His first urge was to flee; his next to shout for help. But he continued to stare down in silence.

I must know what I have done.

Bending down slowly, he pulled the helmet off the man's head. To his relief, there were none of the sights he had seen so often on the frontiers, brains or fragments of bone or a caved skull. His helmet did its job. He released his breath slowly.

But what about the blood on the ground? Looking the soldier over, Theodotus immediately saw its source; one of the man's eyes was closed, but the other was a bloody mess, gouged out by Theodotus' finger as he had been trained to do long since. 

Theodotus put his hand on the man's gouged eye; then, automatically, raised it to touch his own. So now we are the same. Something in his chest felt tight, and he was still breathing hard as though he had been running. I am a deacon of the Church of God; he told himself. I have violated my calling by shedding blood, but I have not taken a life. I am still a deacon. 

But what did that term mean? He was without comrade or protector, without armor, in enemy territory. His fingers clutched reassuringly at the spatha in his hand; looking down on it, he reminded himself forcefully that clerics were forbidden to carry weapons. But his fingers did not release the sword, continuing to clutch it desperately like a rope held by a drowning man. 

It will draw too much attention, he told himself. It is too large to hide. Even as the thought occurred to him, so did the answer. He dropped the spatha, and, kneeling again beside the fallen soldier, ran his hands expertly across his belt. A moment later, and he had extricate the pugilo, the small regulation dagger, and, with a glance downwards, stowed it carefully in the girdle of his tunic, testing it as he did so to make sure it would not fall or jostle with the movements of his body.

I will not be caught unarmed again. 

Satisfied, he rose to his feet and started off down the side street, stumbling and then walking and finally marching, though slower than before, and with many glances from side to side. He abandoned his strategy of seeking side streets, and instead found the largest throughfare he could. Bad strategy, he told himself. I will draw less attention in a crowd. In a side street, I am an easy target.

But though people looked at him strangely, though once or twice he caught sight of a soldier in the press and his heart began to race, no one accosted him. A few even, seeing the crosses sewed on his tunic, made the sign of the cross as he passed or called out for alms or a blessing. Every time they raised their arms, though, his mind went still and cold, and he found his hand clutching automatically for the dagger in his tunic as his mind planned out the attack by which he would neutralize them. 

His mind was now empty of any thoughts save tactics; where he would go next, who was nearby, who was a threat, where each step would take him, where his hands were and how he would strike if he had to. It took all his effort merely to remind himself of where he was going; until he found himself suddenly in a small square, and spun around, shouting aloud "The Church of Pudentina." A little old woman selling fried bread frowned, but pointed over his shoulder; and, spinning around, he saw it.

It was a smaller Church than he had expected; smaller than the cathedral in Antioch, and less decorated as well, with a dull mosaic of Christ and a bronze cross set over the door. It looked more like a large private house than a Church, and reminded him strangely of the dwelling of the governor where they had taken him and the others after his arrest. The governor had been sitting in a low chair, awaiting more important visitors, and had barely glanced at them before sentencing them; but he remembered vividly the rings on his stubby fingers, and the way he had snapped pistachios with his fingers before placing them into his wide mouth. There had been soldiers in front of his door...

He stopped; sure enough, a Roman soldier was standing idly to the side of the church entrance, snapping his fingers and looking slowly around as he did so. 

So this is it. Theodotus looked around the marketplace. For more than ten years now, he had chosen the life of a deacon, and put the the soldier entirely behind him. The two represented, in the eyes of clerics and soldiers alike, entirely incompatible statuses and ways of life; most clerics he met shared the older belief that even to be a soldier and a Christian represented an impossible combination, like a sheep mixed with a lion. For more than ten years, he had lived as a sheep, and suppressed all aspects of the the predator. He had stayed purely and securely on one side of the line; and then suddenly, in a moment, he had found that he had already crossed it. His earlier transgression, though, had been unthinking, automatic, almost unconscious. Here before him was the staring necessity of trespassing consciously, definitively, once and for all. Once he had crossed that line, could he ever go back? And would he want to?

He looked around again, at the sunlight glittering off the tops of the buildings; at the old woman selling fried bread; at a poor mother surrounded by a gaggle of children; at a crowd of lounging men staring out of a barber-shop and laughing. It was not too late to simply turn around and surrender himself to the soldiers; to be martyred as he ought to have been then. Certainly, he had no doubt what choice the old man would have made in his place; what choice the old man would want him to make. Or Eustathius...

Slowly, he approached the soldier, walking now at a leisurely pace. One hand, in his sleeve, held the handle of the dagger; the other extended itself towards the soldier. "Lord," he said slowly. "I am here to see the bishop. Will you let me pass?"

There was an infinitely long moment in which Theodotus gripped the dagger and stared into the man's eyes. He was young, terribly young; though not, he told himself suddenly, younger than the man whose eyes he had just gouged out by the basilica. This man had pale, freckled skin and the blue eyes of a German; what color had that man's hair been? He struggled to recall; it seemed, suddenly, terribly important. This young man was sweating visibly under his helmet and armor, and staring at him with open mouth. It made him look even younger. Theodotus gripped the dagger.

"What?" The young soldier's open mouth spoke bemusement. He stared at Theodotus' face, then down at his deacon's tunic, then frowned, jutting his lip out and making himself look even younger, like a pouting child. "What business of mine is it who sees your damn bishop? I'm here to guard this plaza, not him." And with a noise of contempt he swung his hips out and strutted past Theodotus out into the square. 

Theodotus released his breath slowly. I am still a deacon. He slowly released the dagger with his fingers, and, without allowing himself to think further, plunged into the interior of the Church.

It was dark inside, much darker than in the newer churches in Antioch. Like all churches he had been in, it was shaped like a Roman basilica, with a great central space surrounded by porticos of columns: but here, the space was longer and narrower than he was used to. What had once visibly been the courtyard of a large private dwelling had been walled in and decorated with mosaics and painted panels. At the front, nestled behind the altar, was a large, crude mosaic of a female saint dressed in a long white tunic, her arms outstretched to heaven. At the foot of it, looking up, was a small, shrunken man in a long white robe.

Theodotus all but ran down the aisle. "Your...your...blessed...holy...bishop...father...Sylvester! Please!"

Theodotus skidded to a halt just in front of the altar, tripping and falling forward onto the steps in front of the sanctuary. Looking up, he saw that Sylvester was still standing in the same place; but had turned his head to look at him.

"Yes?" he said.

Theodotus tried to focus his mind, and speak in the measured tone he used for official reports to his bishop. But it did not come. How had he spoken in the middle of a battle? He could no longer remember.

"They...they are coming for me. They are...the Emperor is coming to take me. To...to kill, or...please, father. Mercy. Mercy." 

Sylvester continued to look at him without turning. He seemed neither confused or excited. "You are Eustathius' deacon?" he said at last. "From Antioch?"

"Yes, father," Theodotus said. He rose unsteadily to his feet, then halted, not sure whether to enter the sanctuary. "Yes. I--we met yesterday. I was with Hosius, at--" A noise from behind him made him spin around in sudden fear; but it was just a priest, walking down the main isle with a wax tablet in his hand. "Please," he said again, turning back around to Sylvester. "Please. You must--the Emperor is trying to--to--"

"Alright," Sylvester said. He took a step forward, and gestured over his head, sharply, to the deacon. "Atticus--Atticus! Come here. Yes, here." He stepped nimbly around Theodotus, continuing to gesture energetically at the priest. "Use that tablet--yes, the one you're holding, boy. Write up a document--the usual form--but make it out to the Emperor Constantine. I don't know what formulas you use, but we used them before, when he was here the last time. Inform him that Theodotus, a deacon of Eustathius of Antioch, has requested sanctuary, and that I have granted it. No, I don't care what else you wanted to talk to me about. Do it now. Go. Get. Now!" He shooed the priest away with energetic gestures of his hand and arm.

Abruptly, he was at Theodotus' elbow, peering with interest into his face. Theodotus flinched.

"You have blood on your hand," Sylvester said. "Whose is it? Yours? Someone else's? Come now, don't get choked up. You've asked for help, and I'm giving it. Answer me."

Theodotus took a deep breath, and tried to steady himself. He failed. "I...someone else's. I--he--there was a soldier. He--"

Sylvester sighed. "That's what I was afraid of. Don't worry, though. You're not the first Syrian deacon I've gotten out of a murder charge. They make them rougher out there. And you look like you've seen your fair share of action." 

Theodotus shook his head, suddenly. "No...no, you don't understand. I don't--I haven't killed anyone. His eye.  And...they don't want me for that. The Emperor...he is trying to arrest me because...because I know his secret. He killed his son!" He gripped Sylvester's gnarled hand tightly, pulling him in closer. Sylvester looked for the first time alarmed. "I was sent here...to find out why. And I found out. He wants to kill me. He's just...just like Diocletian. We have to...we have to do something." 

Sylvester looked at him oddly. "And what do you think we should do?" 

Suddenly, in the whirlwind of his thoughts, the answer came clearly. He gripped Sylvester's hand even tighter, and the old man winced. "We have to punish him. He is...guilty, and...he has to be punished." 

Sylvester pulled his hand roughly out of Theodotus' own, and took a step back. He stared at him in perplexity. "...what? What are you talking about?"

"Please!" Theodotus said. "You...you're the bishop of Rome. The chair of Peter. You have to...have to help me punish him. He's guilty. He's a Christian." He desperately searched his mind for the appropriate terms, but only fragments of soldierly Latin greeted him. "You can...curse him. Yes? Maledict him, inter...interdict him, revile him. Nefas. And if you do..." A light like dawn broke on his mind. "He'll be overthrown. His soldiers will turn on him. I know what it's like; I've heard the stories, seen the whispers. If you tell everyone...that he's sinned, that God no longer favors him...if you tell them that there is a curse on him. They'll kill him. Please. You have to--"

Sylvester took another step backwards, retreating onto the altar again. There was disgust on his face. "What is this? Are you a deacon or a bandit? You come here, to this sacred place, covered in blood, then--"

 Theodotus stood up straight; he felt suddenly calm again. "I have a mission from God," he said, staring into Sylvester's face. "A gift. To reveal guilt. But...it's not enough." He cast his mind back across the past days, the past years of his life, and found them utterly barren. "For so many years now, I've--I've seen such evil. Such guilt. And I've uncovered it, but...it's not enough. It has to stop. It has to be punished. That's what God wants from me...why he gave me this gift. Not just to know guilt, but to punish it. To avenge...all those victims." 

He advanced desperately towards Sylvester, stepping for the first time into the sanctuary. "And you are a servant of God. You have to help me." A wave of relief was washing across him. At last, he understood; at last, he knew what it had all been for, all the years of guilt, of shame, of endless, repetitive labors and endless self-restraint. Now, at last, it would all be worthwhile. 

Sylvester advanced towards him, vibrating with anger, and thrust him physically out of the sanctuary. "How dare you! Back...back, pagan! You will not defile the altar with your blood-guilt! Back!" 

Theodotus took a step backwards in confusion. "Why...why won't you help me?" he asked, staring at Sylvester. "I tell you, he's guilty. And...and..." He cast his thoughts back to Eusthatius' pale face in his bedroom in Antioch. "And...sin cannot be repented until guilt is revealed."

Sylvester's face softened, and his body seemed to wilt. He sighed deeply. "Did they teach you nothing? What do they teach deacons in the East?" For a long minute he stared off into space. Theodotus continued to stare at him. He would not let go of this certainty, this light after so long in the darkness. He would persuade the bishop.

"Very well," Sylvester said finally. Turning, he fixed Theodotus with his gaze again. "Do you know why clerics are forbidden from blood guilt?"

Theodotus shrugged. "All Christians are forbidden from sin. From violence. Clerics are held to stricter standards." 

Sylvester shook his head vigorously. "No. Not all who shed blood sin. Some defend themselves, punish the strong, vindicate the weak. Even this is forbidden to clerics. We cannot even bear weapons. Why?"

Theodotus felt his certainty wavering. His mind was empty now. "I...I do not know."

Sylvester nodded sharply. "Yes, you do not know. Tell me, do we demand that mothers shed the blood of their children?" Theodotus stared at him in confusion. 

"Some give life," Sylvester said, his tone softening. "and some take it. But never both at once. Mothers give life. And they continue to do so, even when the life they have given is used for evil. And because they have given the life, because they give it, they cannot be the ones to take it away."

He took a step closer to Theodotus."Even at executions, even of the worst sinners, the most shameful malefactors, when the whole people curses the offender; even the pagans do not ask the mother to curse her child. They do not say that she is disloyal to the state, to the people, to justice, when she pleads for him at the judgment seat. Though all are forbidden to give him help or comfort, no one prevents her from crying out to him, or baring her breast, or wailing and tearing her hair when he is struck with the sword. Though his body is accursed, no one accuses her when she begs it from the executioner, and buries it with honor."

Sylvester put a hand on Theodotus' shoulder. "The Church is a mother. She gives life, and can never take it. That is why clerics can never shed blood, or participate in its shedding. And you are a cleric." His voice was suddenly loud, harsh, commanding.

Theodotus flinched, and tried to throw off the hand. "But...does not the Church punish offenders?" Desperately, he tried to summon to his mind the words spoken to him by Philogonius and Eustathius, and by his fellow deacons. What had they said? "I...Iave worked in the episcopal court. Yes, we do not condemn men to death; but we do punish. And does not the Church wield a spiritual sword? Cut the unworthy off from the...from the sacred mysteries? I have seen Eustathius--"

Sylvester shook his head. "When the child scratches and bites, the mother withdraws the breast. But she does so only to offer it again when it can be worthily received. So the Church withdraws the sacred mysteries of life for a time, so that they may again be worthily received. But she does not deal death, or shed blood, or condemn sinners to hell. That is God's alone to do." 

Theodotus stared at him numbly. Sylvester smiled at him. "Come now...you ask me to excommunicate the Emperor. But I have no authority do so. He is not baptized; he does not participate in the sacred mysteries. How can I withdraw them from him?" 

Theodotus opened his mouth, but Sylvester cut him off with a sudden frown. "And then you ask me to declare publicly that he is accursed of God, and invite his soldiers to overthrow him. But that would be not merely to participate in the shedding of his blood, but in the shedding of blood all across the Empire. I remember the civil wars. I remember the swollen bodies of Maxentius' soldiers in the Tiber, and the blood staining Constantine's armor. Even for the overthrow of a tyrant, it is a terrible thing." He looked away, back towards the altar, for a moment. "Perhaps it might even be right, in desperate need, for a bishop to call for a tyrant's downfall; but is Constantine a tyrant? You say he has sinned; but does he not rule with more justice than his predecessors? Did he not end the Persecution? And what guarantee would there be that he would be replaced by someone more just? What has he done?"

Theodotus took a deep breath, and fixed his gaze onto Sylvester's dark eyes. "He...he has killed his son. And his wife. And he...he lied. And treated Licinius with injustice."

Sylvester nodded thoughtfully. "I believe you," he said slowly. "He should repent, and be baptized. If I speak to him, I will exhort him to do so. But these private sins do not render him a tyrant. I will not denounce him publicly, or invite his overthrow." He returned Theodotus' gaze, levelly. 

Theodotus was the first to break the gaze; he looked away, to the side and the pillared colonnade to his right. "Very well," he said, thinking. He reached his hand under his tunic, and felt the handle of the dagger again. Again, it comforted him. "You can do nothing. But I can. I will punish Constantine. I will kill him, in the name of God."

Sylvester advanced towards him again. "You will do no such thing," he said, fuming. "You are a cleric, Theodotus. You will--"

"I am no cleric," Theodotus said, shaking his head. Now that he said the words out loud, they seemed merely obvious, like a fact long known but not thought of. "And Theodotus is not my name." He shook his head as if trying to clear it. "You are right about clerics giving life; but I have never given life to anyone. I am a man of blood. I was a soldier, and killed many; and I put martyrs to death by the sword. If those who give life can never take it, then I cannot give life." He nodded again, in decision. "So I will kill Constantine."

Sylvester was staring at him again, his brow furrowed. "They will kill you." 

Theodotus nodded. "I deserve to die," he said; and again, it was only an obvious truth. "I have held in the Church the honor of a cleric and a martyr; and I am neither." He laughed harshly, gesturing to his empty eye-socket. "Merely because they put out my eye. I tell you, father, it was nothing. I had expected, hoped for, so much more, for suffering, atonement. But it was so quick, so easy. Less pain than a day's march. Then they let me go again. It was nothing to what I did to the martyrs. To her." He shrugged his shoulders. "Their god made me a Christian. But he gave me only the power to avenge evils; and it is only right that I avenge my own as well." He turned away from Sylvester, towards the apse of the Church. 

"This is truly what you believe?" It was Sylvester's voice, coming now from behind him, and oddly quiet. "Then why did you accept ordination?"

"Yes," Theodotus said. His own voice shook. "I...I grew guilty in my murder of the innocent. I deserted...was taken in by a deacon of Antioch. He trained me to be his replacement; and told me that this was the way to atone for my sins. After he died, the bishop accepted me for ordination in his name."

"I see," Sylvester voice came again from behind him; it shook with restrained emotion. "And now, instead of atoning for your sins in the way that this deacon prescribed for you--and which was no doubt affirmed by your bishop when you confessed your sins to him--you are going to reject the path of the cleric and choose the path of blood again. You are going to kill the Emperor of Rome, and be executed as a murderer. That is what you believe God intends for you."

Theodotus felt his vision blinded by warm, hot tears, but he ignored them. "It's not enough," he said simply. "What I've done...what he told me to do...it's not enough. It will never be enough." He gripped his dagger tightly, and walked again to the door of the Church.

"Before you go," Sylvester's voice came, one last time, from over his shoulder. It, too, seemed choked with emotion; but it was louder than before, and sounded clearly across the space of the Church. "I have one last word for you. You have been a deacon; and before that, you say you were a soldier. In both roles, you knew how to follow orders. It seems you cannot be persuaded by reason, or by the sacred chrism of your anointing. So I appeal to neither. I only give you an order. Do not do it. Do not kill again. Do not die."

These last words were distinct in his ears as he stepped out of the Church, and back into the blinding light. He stood still until his vision cleared; and there, in front of him, was another man. It was not a soldier this time, but a purple-clad eunuch, his beardless face deathly pale against the purple of his cloak, paler even than the gold on his head and neck and arms. As Theodotus looked at him, he smiled.

"You are Theodotus, deacon of Great Antioch?" The voice was as highly pitched as a woman's, but smoother than that of the rhetor in the basilica. Theodotus nodded.

"Very good. The Emperor Constantine, Forever Victorious Augustus, requests your presence at a dinner in his private chambers. Do you accept?"

Theodotus nodded again; and the eunuch's smile broadened even further, till it seemed to threaten to split his face in two. "Very good," he said again. "Follow me."

And, gripping the handle of his dagger even more tightly, Theodotus followed.