Caesar's Lord, page 23
But the church split at Alexandria was a troublesome development. Such squabbling about trivial points of doctrine had to cease. If some people wanted to view Jesus as a divinized creature and others wanted him to be equal to God . . . what harm was there in such disagreement? As Constantine finally sat up in his bed and swung his feet to the floor, he prayed that a middle-of-the-road compromise would triumph over theological precision.
Two days later, however, a messenger arrived at Nicomedia with new information that challenged Constantine’s morning ruminations. The visitor was the speculator-turned-deacon named Brandulf Rex—a man who always seemed to be at the center of important matters. Rex had come on an urgent mission from Ossius at Antiochia, completing the difficult overland trip in just twelve days despite an attack by highwaymen. He had brought a dossier of letters and treatises from the good bishop. After Constantine examined the packet, he summoned Rex to appear before him in a little hall with a throne in the apse.
“Brandulf Rex, I don’t know your secret, but you seem not to age,” Constantine remarked before his questions began. “You look as fit now as the day you entered my bodyguard. Do you remember your ride across the battlefield on the Rhenus with shields draped all over you?”
“I do, Your Highness. It was either cover myself in shields or take a Frankish arrow in my arse. But I had to get across that field. Just like now, I had important news for you then too.”
Constantine chuckled at Rex’s rugged, self-confident demeanor. He had always found Rex to be a likable fellow. His arms still bulged with muscles, and his long hair and beard were masculine without being too barbaric. “You’ve been distinguishing yourself on the battlefield ever since that day, Brandulf Rex. The Milvian Bridge. Cibalae. The Mardian Plain. Hadrianopolis. Chrysopolis.” Constantine paused as a wry smile came to his lips. “And yes,” he added with his brows arched, “at Verona as well.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Rex said with a dip of his chin.
Constantine could tell his guest was especially pleased he had included that last remark. The emperor cleared his throat and redirected his thoughts, for it was time to discuss the matter that had brought Rex to Nicomedia. “The dossier you delivered was quite illuminating. Did Father Arius’s followers really attack the episcopal basilica?”
“Yes, with fire and hammers. I had to lead the people to safety by smashing through the floor and escaping through the cisterns.”
“What an evil crime! Such a thing should never happen among Christians.”
Before Constantine could say more, a palace steward approached the throne and whispered in his ear. The theologian Lactantius, who had been summoned earlier, had just arrived and was waiting at the far end of the hall. Constantine beckoned for Lactantius to come and stand next to Rex. “It seems you were right about Arianism after all,” the emperor said to the eminent scholar and rhetorician. “The issues under debate are more consequential than I first imagined.”
Lactantius nodded gravely. “Christianity stands at a junction, Your Majesty. How the catholic church addresses the Arian question will determine what it will become for the rest of its existence.”
“I perceive that fork in the road more clearly now,” Constantine admitted. “I thought I could just have the two sides sweep the matter under the rug. But there are fundamental doctrines at stake here—along with much pride, bickering, and hard feelings.”
“Unfortunately, it’s all wrapped together,” Lactantius agreed. “But we mustn’t let the sinful part obscure the core issues about who Christ really is.”
Constantine switched his gaze to Rex. “Tell me what happened down at Antiochia. Did they really excommunicate Eusebius? I like that little scholar, even if he is a bit of a toady.”
“I think Eusebius’s heart is in the right place. It’s true, he does want your approval, and he’s willing to flatter you to get it. He also wants the approval of other bishops. Yet he’s got a stubborn streak, so when they tried to correct him, he wouldn’t budge. He’s digging in his heels on Arianism. That’s what got him excommunicated. However, they’re giving him a chance to repent at the big council they want to convene.”
Constantine glanced down at the documents in his lap. “They’re calling it a ‘magnificent council of the clergy.’ It sounds like they want everyone in the east to attend.”
“Yes, sir. Ossius said he wants every bishop who can get to Ancyra this summer to go.”
“Why Ancyra, of all places? It’s remote and unpleasant.”
“I just passed through there a few days ago, and I couldn’t agree more.”
Now Lactantius intervened. “If I may explain, Your Majesty, I think the reason is both geographic and strategic. All the eastern bishops can travel there by land, whether down through Nicomedia or up from Syria, Palaestina, and Aegyptus. As for strategy—I believe the bishop there is fiercely anti-Arian.”
Constantine frowned. “It wouldn’t be a fair council, then, would it? We’re not having it in Ancyra.”
“Very well. How about your capital of New Rome?” Lactantius suggested.
“No, that would make it look like I’m meddling in church affairs. The council needs to be close to my oversight, yet not in an obvious place of imperial power.”
“I have an idea,” Rex said. “I just came through a town I found to be pleasant. It was the first way station on my trip where the horse trough didn’t freeze overnight. I think it would be nice in the summer. And there’s an imperial palace on a lake.”
Constantine was intrigued. “And this place is?”
“Nicaea. About a two days’ carriage ride from here.”
“The city of victory! That is a good idea, Brandulf Rex. It will be the perfect place for a ‘victorious’ council that puts an end to all this strife. I only hope some of the eastern bishops will explain to their western brethren the hidden meaning of the town’s Greek name.”
Rex and Lactantius exchanged glances. Constantine remained silent and let his guests linger in their surprise, until Lactantius finally said, “Do you mean . . . there will be Latin speakers at this council? Men who do not know Greek?”
“Of course. Because there are many Latin-speaking Christians in our far western lands.”
“So you intend to summon all the bishops of the whole catholic church to this council? Even from the west? A worldwide gathering?”
“That is exactly what I intend, Lactantius. And I shall pay for it out of the imperial treasury. We shall send invitations to Britannia and Gaul and Hispania, to Africa and Aegyptus and Syria, and to every church along the Euphrates and the Danubius and the Rhenus. The whole world will run to Nicaea, the city of victory, like sprinters from the starting line!”
“There is one bishop whose agreement is especially important,” Rex remarked. “Without him, this council won’t seem truly catholic, even if it involves other bishops from the four corners of the earth.”
“And who is that?” Constantine asked.
“My former pastor, the man who baptized me, Pope Sylvester of Rome.”
“Aha! This is true indeed. If the bishop from the city of Peter and Paul doesn’t approve the outcome of the council, it won’t have the proper weight of authority.”
Turning toward his steward, Constantine clapped his hands. When the man hurried over, the emperor said, “Bring me the stable master, for I have a special command and I wish him to hear it directly from me.”
Since the palace at Nicomedia wasn’t immense, it didn’t take long for the steward to return with the stable master—a tall, thin fellow with a beaked nose. Constantine overlooked the fact that he had manure on his boots in the imperial throne room.
“Listen to me closely,” the emperor said, “for this matter is important. I am sending an envoy to Rome, someone who is loved with great affection by the Christian church there. Because it is winter, the trip must be mostly by land, so I want my best carriage refurbished to the highest standards. Upholster it everywhere with cushions and silks. Seal out the cold, but leave windows that can be opened whenever the weather is nice. I want only the finest mules to draw it, and you shall exchange them for the best ones that the stations can offer along the way. In other words, make it the most comfortable trip possible for my special envoy.”
“It shall be done just as you ask,” the stable master said, bowing at the waist.
“This must be quite a special man you’re sending,” Lactantius observed.
Constantine chuckled. “Although you are a brilliant theologian, Lactantius, you are mistaken on this one. I am sending no man, but a lady of impeccable character and unmatched social graces. As for who she is—well, I shall give her the honor of finding out about this mission from me. You may learn her identity afterward. And now, gentlemen, may God bless your work as you begin preparing for the momentous Council of Nicaea.”
7
FEBRUARY 325
“I’ve been looking forward to this bath for a month,” Empress Helena said as she disrobed in the changing room with her ladies-in-waiting. “The rigors of the road take a toll on the body in every way.”
“We haven’t seen a real bathhouse since we left Nicomedia,” agreed a handmaiden who served as the queen’s cubicularia, the chamberlain of the royal bedroom. “At last, we are civilized again!”
The ladies made their way to the tepid room to adjust themselves to the warmth after the short walk from the Sessorian Palace. Today was a chilly day in Rome, and most experts advised against sudden swings in temperature. It was better for the body, the doctors agreed, to grow accustomed to the heat gradually. Helena took a seat on a marble bench and slipped her feet out of the wooden clogs she had used to cross the heated floor. The pleasant feeling of radiant warmth immediately made her sleepy. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
But some of the other girls were chatty, so they prattled among themselves about the things they had seen and experienced on the road from Nicomedia. The trip had been about as enjoyable as Helena could have hoped for, especially since Constantine had made the carriage so comfortable. The only difficult part had been crossing the Adriatic Sea from Macedonia to Italy. It had taken a full day to get the fine carriage stowed securely on a ship, which turned out to be time well spent when a winter squall made the waters choppy. But the embassy had made it safely across, and the rest of the trip up the Appian Way was uneventful. The queen, her ladies-in-waiting, and her bodyguard had arrived in Rome this morning. The bathhouse next to the Sessorian Palace was the first place Helena had decided to go. If she was going to meet with the pope, she intended to do it with a clean body and a refreshed spirit.
After a while, the women felt ready for the caldarium. As they entered the hot room, a servant gave them each a sachet to wear around their neck. The little pouch, made with a porous fabric, was filled with nuggets of myrrh and peppermint leaves. After settling into the steaming water—almost too hot to stand, Helena thought—the women periodically squeezed the packets to release the natural oils. The pool’s hot water caused pleasant menthol vapors with soothing aromas and healing powers to rise up to the ladies’ faces.
It wasn’t long before Helena felt stifled by the heat, so she ladled cool water over her head from a silver pail. Though it helped, something still seemed off. The Sessorian baths were old, even decrepit in certain places. Often if the chimneys in a bathhouse weren’t well maintained, too much heat would build up in the pools. Helena was about to do something about it when a servant entered the caldarium with an item that made her forget about the heat for the moment. Rather than directly approach the queen, the servant gave the item to the cubicularia, who brought it across the pool to her mistress. “It’s a lovely resemblance!” the girl exclaimed as she handed it to Helena.
The item was a gold coin that depicted Helena’s head adorned with a pearl diadem. Around the bust were the words HELENA AUGUSTA. The brand-new solidus, fresh from the Roman mint, was designed to reflect a new political reality. A few weeks ago, Constantine, the sole augustus of the Imperial College, did something that had been done only once before in the forty years of the college’s existence: he raised a woman to the rank of augusta, a position equal to his own. Helena’s previous rank was Most Noble Woman, a symbolic title of honor. Now she was a coruler of the empire with her son. The only annoying thing about Constantine’s momentous decision was that he had granted the title to his wife, Fausta, as well.
“Let’s see the reverse,” the cubicularia suggested.
Helena turned over the coin in her palm. The words SECURITY OF THE REPUBLIC were emblazoned around its edge. Inside the inscription was an image of Lady Security in a relaxed and carefree pose, holding the olive branch of peace. “I don’t know if I can bring peace and security to my people,” Helena murmured, “but with God’s help, I will try.”
“You will do great things for this empire,” the cubicularia said in a tone marked by genuine confidence rather than flattery. “You will leave a lasting mark upon this earth, my lady.”
The sudden reminder of Helena’s great responsibilities weighed heavily upon her and made her want some time to herself. She rose from the water and tucked the coin in the sachet at her neck. Leaving her handmaidens to their lighthearted chatter, she went to the bath’s cold room. A dip in the chilly waters of the plunge pool immediately cooled her off, leaving her skin tingly and flushed. Now it was time for the sauna, a place Helena had often found conducive to spiritual thoughts; for with the purging of the body came the purging of the soul as well.
The sweat started immediately, but that was what Helena wanted. A good sweat was a pleasant thing as long as it didn’t last too long. She sat quietly in the sauna, enjoying the heat and trying to clear her mind of resentment toward Fausta. That woman was always undercutting Crispus’s career or maligning him despite his high moral character. Fausta wanted to advance her biological sons instead of Crispus, who was the child of Constantine’s former concubine. Though the three boys were all caesars in the Imperial College, everyone could see it was Crispus who was destined to rule after his father. That popular sentiment infuriated Fausta, filling her with a kind of insane jealousy. Helena often felt she was the only person standing between Crispus and serious violence from his stepmother.
The pleasant intensity of the sauna’s dry heat soon became too much for Helena. Once again, the Sessorian baths seemed to be functioning poorly, making what should have been a leisurely sweat feel more like torment. Helena rose from the bench and crossed to the door, her clogs making clip-clop sounds on the marble floor.
But upon reaching the door, Helena found it stuck. The old wood had warped from the bath’s constant moisture, the hinges had rusted, and the paving stones outside had shifted to make an obstruction beneath the door. For a moment, Helena began to panic when she realized she wasn’t able to get out. The thought of being trapped in this overheated room frightened her. Calming herself, she took a step back and lowered her shoulder. Then, like a commoner fighting his way through a crowd at the amphitheater, she gave a shove to the door. It opened, though not by much. Another hard strike with her shoulder was sufficient for Helena to squeeze through. The cool, sweet air that flooded her lungs was a great relief.
“Attendant!” she called, but there was no answer. Since when does a bathhouse not have an attendant nearby for the augusta of the empire?
Thoroughly irritated now, Helena went to the changing room and donned a silk wrap, then made her way downstairs to the subterranean level. Though she had never been down there, she knew exactly what three things she would find: firewood, a furnace, and people to tend the flames. Every bathhouse had a team of slaves constantly working beneath the beautiful facility above. Since it took a long time to heat the whole building, the fire had to be kept going continuously or the process would have to start all over. Bathing in Rome required a lot of manpower and logs.
An orange glow around the corner told Helena where the furnace was to be found. From this one source, hot air would circulate beneath the floors and through the walls, as well as heat the tanks for soaking. Helena rounded the corner and found the fireman to be a pale, misshapen fellow in a loincloth who was hurling logs into the furnace instead of maintaining a low, steady fire. Clearly, the furnace was overheated. The fireman couldn’t even stand close to the blazing inferno. Yet he kept pitching more fuel into the furnace’s gaping maw.
Helena loudly cleared her throat, but the man didn’t respond. At last, she said, “Look at me!”
The slave turned, and when he did, he became the most pitiful spectacle Helena had ever witnessed. He fell to his knees with his deformed leg sticking out to one side. His eyes bugged with fear. Clasping his hands in front of himself, he wailed, “Please, lady, no whip me!”
“I’m not going to whip you,” Helena said. “I just want to know why you’re trying to steam me like a lobster.”
“I no steam you! They bring me from mines. I no make fires there!”
The mines. That explains the man’s terror. The imperial mines were a hellhole that would break any man’s spirit. Certainly they had broken this man’s body, and it hadn’t healed well. Nor had his mind healed from the trauma and mistreatment. Yet somehow he had been brought here from that living death. Now he had been put to work underground again, even though he knew nothing about tending a furnace. It was a ridiculous decision that was bound to fail. Fausta would no doubt scourge this man, along with the supervisor who had assigned him here.
But Helena had no such intentions. She approached the crippled slave, who lowered his eyes and whimpered as she drew near. For a moment, the augusta said nothing. Then, softly, she put her hand on his shoulder. “Rise up.”
The terrified slave didn’t have the courage to obey, so Helena drew him up by the elbow until he was standing. Because of his deformed leg and bent torso, he was even shorter than she was. His skin was pale from his many years in darkness. The gulf between this man’s lot in life and her own was as wide as could be.
