Secrets of the Dead

XXXII

Constantinople – May 337

I HURRY DOWN the alley, then up an avenue lined with plane trees. They’re only saplings now, but one day they’ll shade the whole street. If the city lasts that long. The empire is littered with half-finished cities built to flatter different emperors’ vanity. I’ve seen them all: Thessalonica, Nicomedia, Milan, Aquileia, Sirmium – even Rome is ringed with hippodromes that never staged a race, mausoleums whose occupants were waylaid elsewhere. Will another emperor stand to live in a city named after his predecessor?

My footsteps quicken, driven by the pace of my thoughts. I remember what Constantine told me, the day he dragged me to the palace. The Christians spit and scratch, but they don’t bite. And I remember Flavius Ursus’s parting shot from the far shore of the Bosphorus, waiting for Constantine to die. Have you wondered why Constantine asked someone who knows nothing about the Christians to investigate the death of a bishop?

Was Constantine playing me for a fool? Did Eusebius put him up to it? Even if I was going to find out anything, they must have been sure I’d bury it. I’ve been burying Constantine’s problems all my life.

There are two factions. They have various names for each other, but the easiest way to describe them is as Arians and Orthodox. The Arians follow the doctrine of a priest called Arius, that Christ the Son of God was created out of nothing by the Father. The Orthodox maintain that to be fully God, Christ must be the same eternal substance as his Father.

I’ve heard all this before.

Nicaea – June 325 – Twelve years earlier …

I never understood the arguments. So far as I know, no one ever asked if Apollo was co-eternal with Diana, or whether Hercules was of the same substance as Jupiter. My brothers and I never sat in our cave enquiring into the nature and persons of Mithra. We made the sacrifices, we performed the rituals the way we were taught. We trusted the gods to know their own business.

But the Christians are different: a nitpicking, hair-splitting, prying bunch who spend endless hours asking unanswerable questions – purely, I think, for those moments of joyous insight when they discover they have something else to argue about. It drives Constantine to distraction. He needs the Christians praying for his continued success, not squabbling over technicalities like lawyers.

‘A united empire needs a united religion,’ he complains to me one day. ‘A divided church is an affront to the One God.’

And an affronted God might decide to look for a new champion.

The Christians can agree that their God has three parts – a father, who is like Jupiter; the son, Christ, he fathered by a mortal woman to do his work on Earth, like Hercules; and a spirit messenger, who I think must be like Mercury. Why these have to be one God, and not three, no one ever explains. But they spend endless hours debating the relationship between them, in the same way that senators speculate about the changing fortunes of the court favourites.

One of these intellectual busybodies is a priest called Arius, from Alexandria. Trying to describe his god, he’s said something so outrageous that half the Christians will have no truck with him; the other half have leapt to his defence, and suddenly the Church is at war.

‘I’ve spent twenty years uniting the empire so the Christians can live in peace,’ Constantine laments. ‘And within a year of my victory, they’re trying to tear it apart again.’

What did you expect? I want to say.

In war, Constantine always looks for the decisive battle. So he applies the same logic to the Church: he summons all the contestants to his palace at Nicaea to do battle and declare a winner that everyone will recognise.

‘The question is so trivial, it doesn’t merit this controversy,’ he says hopefully. ‘I’m sure we can settle it without fuss.’

The palace stands on the shore of a lake, looking west. Nicaea’s a modest town among fertile hills: the great profusion of Christians who’ve descended from across the empire can barely squeeze inside its walls. There are two hundred and fifty bishops, twice as many priests and presbyters, plus all the servants, attendants, hangers-on and baggage they bring. The only room big enough to hold the council session is the great hall of the palace, where carpenters have erected twin banks of tiered seating. On the opening morning of the council, the bishops take their seats, ranked on either side of the hall like spectators in the hippodrome.

For most of them – especially the eastern bishops who’ve just come under his rule – it’s the first time they’ve set eyes on Constantine. He dazzles them. When they’re all standing, he enters alone wearing a bright purple robe. The silk shimmers like water in the sunlight, while the precious stones sewn into the fabric paint the floor with colour. He walks solemnly down the aisle, head bowed, hands clasped. He mounts the dais at the end, where a gold curule chair, like judges use, is waiting. He turns to face the bishops and motions to the stool.

‘With your permission?’

They’re so shocked, they almost forget to murmur their assent. An emperor’s never asked them for anything. Constantine sits. The bishops sit. Eusebius, who’s seated closest to Constantine’s right hand, makes a speech thanking God for Constantine’s benevolent wisdom. Constantine makes a speech in reply. ‘Free yourselves from the shackles of dispute,’ he tells them, ‘and live in the freedom of the laws of peace. This is what pleases God – and me.’

His eyes sweep the room to make sure they understand. Two hundred and fifty heads humbly bow.

But two weeks later, they still haven’t bent. To Constantine’s surprise, it turns out that Christians are just as devious as anyone else. Bringing them together in the palace hasn’t concentrated their minds on divine unity: it’s concentrated their poison and their scheming. Nothing’s achieved.

We meet in Constantine’s bedchamber at sunset. Outside the window, lake waves lap against the foot of the wall. The bishops are at one of their interminable services – the only time we can be sure no one’s listening. Even the palace slaves have been dismissed. It’s just Crispus and me – the only two men he can trust.

Constantine bursts through the door. He always pushes too hard, I’ve noticed – he’s not used to having to open a door himself. A secretary scurries in behind him, carrying a pile of scrolls stacked up like firewood in his arms.

‘Put them there.’ Constantine points to a bed next to me. The secretary dumps them, bows and retreats. Constantine unrolls one, moving his lips as he tries to read it. I wonder if the Christians write in Greek deliberately, a delicate humiliation.

‘“From the church at Alexandria, to the Lord Constantine, Augustus, Caesar, etc., etc. Whereas it is alleged that Eustathius, Bishop of Antioch, consorts with prostitutes and immoral women, we earnestly implore you to nullify his election so that a righteous and godly man may be appointed …”’ He tosses the paper back on to the pile. ‘And somewhere in here, you can be sure there’ll be a petition from the Bishop of Antioch’s friends, urging me to disregard the lies being spread about him and punish his oppressors.’

He pushes them across the bed towards me. Some slide on to the floor.

‘Take them, Gaius.’

‘What shall I do?’

‘Burn the lot of them.’

I move to pick them up, but Constantine waves me back. ‘Not now. Wait until the bishops are out of church – and do it somewhere you’ll be seen. I want them to know they’re wasting their time.’

He throws himself down on the bed. ‘What do I have to do to get these bishops to agree?’

I keep quiet. None of my ideas are what Constantine would call constructive, and he’s in a foul mood. In a couple of weeks, it’ll be the launch of his vicennalia – the twentieth year of his reign. There’ll be feasts, parades, celebrations. Later in the year, we’ll go to Rome for the first time since we defeated Maxentius. He’s desperate to finish the council by then.

Crispus crosses to the window and peers out at the lake. Sunset’s amber light streams in, bathing his face like flame. He’s twenty-five now and at the height of his powers: a more measured, confident version of his father. At the same age, Constantine still lived at a despot’s whim, going to bed every night not knowing if he’d wake up. Like a man who’s survived a famine, in his heart he can’t let go of the fear he’ll go hungry again one day. By contrast, all Crispus has ever known is success.

‘It’s Eusebius,’ he says. ‘He won’t challenge you openly, but he’s totally opposed to any compromise. And he knows every way there is to string out the debate so that nothing gets decided.’

‘He’s always very supportive when I speak to him.’

‘He survived as Bishop of Nicomedia – Licinius’s capital – for seven years while Licinius reigned. He’s a snake who can worm his way into any hole to keep warm.’

It’s a dangerous throw for Crispus – dangerous to mention Licinius just now. After his defeat at Chrysopolis, Licinius went into exile at Thessalonica with his wife Constantiana and their nine-year-old son. Two months ago rumours reached us that Licinius was conspiring with certain senators to escape to Rome, declare himself Emperor and launch a general massacre of all Christians in the empire. Repeating it now, it sounds far-fetched – but even rumours can become self-fulfilling. And Licinius had exhausted his credit with Constantine.

I was sent to Thessalonica to take care of it. Breathless gossip says that I slit Licinius’s throat, then butchered the son while his mother watched. It’s only half-true – the garrison commander killed the son after I’d gone, and paid for his over-zealousness later – but half-truths have a knack of spreading that the truth would envy.

‘Eusebius is the one you need to win round,’ Crispus insists. ‘If he breaks, enough of his faction will follow that you can declare victory. Think of your battles,’ he urges his father. ‘Sometimes you can win the war by outmanoeuvring your opponent. But other times, like at Chrysopolis, a direct charge is the best tactic.’

‘You lose fewer casualties in a war of manoeuvre,’ I murmur.

‘But your enemy lives to fight another day.’

Constantine silences him. ‘I didn’t summon the bishops here for a war. I came to make peace. Peace.’ He springs off the bed, takes three strides across the room and turns. ‘Am I the only man in the world who wants that?’

‘We all want it.’

‘Then don’t talk as if we’re fighting a war. Manoeuvres, attacks, battles – they’re metaphors. No one’s dying. At the end of this all the combatants will get up and go about their business as they did before. That doesn’t happen on a battlefield.’

He slams his fist on an ivory side table. An oil lamp is laid too close to the edge: it shakes loose and smashes. Oil leaks across the floor.

‘What do you want me to do?’ he asks Crispus. ‘Call out the cavalry to trample the bishops under their hooves? Put out the Christians’ eyes and burn them with hot irons until they agree to my way of thinking, like my predecessors did? Shall I march my army around the world and raze every village that believes differently to me?’

‘I didn’t mean –’

‘Because that would be so easy. Anyone can wield a sword.’

He stares down Crispus with a father’s authority. ‘Valerius and I were knocking sticks together when we were five years old, and all that’s changed since then is that the blades have got sharper. But if we rely on that, the empire will never be at peace.’

He rubs his foot in the pool of oil, swirling patterns across the floor.

‘Why did Diocletian divide the empire? Because he needed more commanders to fight his wars. And do you know what? The more men he set to fighting, the more fighting there was. We’ve ended that. One man, one peace, one God. But unless we find new ways of settling our quarrels, of binding this empire together without swords, it’ll all fall apart. That’s what the Christian God offers.’

‘That’s what you offer,’ I say.

‘It’s the work of generations.’ He turns in front of the window and spreads his arms wide. ‘I am what I am – imperfect, hard to change. I haven’t touched my sword since the day we beat Licinius, almost nine months now, but by God it’s difficult. You know the Christian story of the prophet Moses?’

‘He led his people out of slavery in Egypt,’ says Crispus, for my benefit.

‘But he never reached the Promised Land. That was left to his successor …’ Constantine pinches his brow, trying to remember.

‘Joshua.’ Crispus supplies the name, but he’s not really thinking about it. He’s staring at his father. Something profound has just happened – a flash of truth, a shift in understanding. One day, historians will say that Crispus succeeded Constantine as sole Augustus of the empire: their words were written in this moment.

That was left to his successor.

Successor – not successors. Constantine’s never mentioned succession before. Fausta’s pestered him for years, desperate to find out what’s in store for her three sons, but even she’s learned not to raise the subject. From the shocked, delighted look on his face, it’s obvious Crispus was just as hungry to know. And now he does.

Constantine smiles at his son – a complicit smile full of promise. A burden’s lifted from both of them. I feel as if I’m intruding.

‘We’ll remake the empire in God’s image,’ Constantine says. ‘A new world of peace. But nothing will change if we don’t persuade men to change.’

Crispus nods, still dazed.

‘And if the Church can’t agree, what hope is there for anyone else?’

No hope at all, I think. My mind’s back in Thessalonica, watching blood flow across the red marble, while Constantiana’s screams shake the palace. That’s how you keep the peace. I wish they’d spared the boy.

Constantine sits down on the edge of the bed. Crispus perches next to him.

‘Now – how do we persuade the Arians to moderate their views?’

Crispus shakes his head. ‘You’ll never persuade Arius. If it were just him, maybe – but now his ideas have been endorsed by powerful patrons, he can’t back down. He’d humiliate Eusebius.’

‘These questions about the Trinity are so obscure, so trivial, they should never even be asked.’ Constantine looks genuinely vexed. ‘And if they were, everyone should have the good sense not to answer.’

‘You can’t unask the question. So you need to provide an answer.’ Crispus reaches in the folds of his tunic and pulls out a small, scrolled piece of paper. Constantine groans.

‘Another petition?’

‘Alexander of Cyrene – my old tutor – you remember him? He’s composed a creed.’

A creed is the sort of document that Christians love: an inventory of the attributes of their God. Finding one that all the bishops can put their names to has become the chief goal of the council.

Constantine reads it through. Even high in the etherea of Christian doctrine, he has an extraordinary ability to extract the crucial point.

‘This phrase – “Christ is begotten of God, not made” – that’s what Arius will object to?’

‘If God made Christ, then Christ would be something other than God. But if He’s begotten from his father, then they exist from the same substance, so Christ must have existed for as long as God has.’

‘So the father and the son are the same substance.’ I can see the idea taking root in Constantine’s mind. A certain amount of discussion follows, which I take no notice of. All that matters is the conclusion.

‘You have to give them a lead.’ Crispus points to the pile of forgotten petitions still scattered on the bed. ‘Why do you think they give you those?’

‘To frustrate me?’

‘Because they need a judge.’

Next morning Constantine summons a full session of the council in the great hall of the palace. The bishops line up in their long, white rows, standing until Constantine’s taken his golden seat. A dozen hands wave in the air to be noticed.

Constantine looks them over, then points to Crispus’s old tutor.

‘The council recognises Alexander of Cyrene.’

The old man – stout, stern-faced, his dark beard halfway to white – stands and begins to speak. The words mean nothing to me, but I still remember how it begins.

‘We believe in one God …’

Eusebius is on his feet the moment Alexander finishes, but Constantine doesn’t call on him. He surveys the assembled bishops with a mild gaze.

‘This sounds very reasonable to me,’ he remarks. ‘Nearly identical to my own beliefs. In fact, if you added something to be clear that the Son is made of the same substance as the Father …’

‘Homoousios’ – his translator supplies the Greek word.

‘… then who could possibly argue with it?’

His eyes sweep the room, and come to rest on Eusebius, still standing, waiting to be recognised.

‘Bishop?’

Eusebius licks his lips and clears his throat. His hand tugs at a stray thread in his robe, winding it around his fat finger until the tip goes red.

‘I –’

He’s defeated. He can call Constantine a heretic, or he can accept the compromise. Suicide or surrender.

He spreads his arms wide. ‘Who could possibly argue with this?’

Constantine smiles, delighted. The rest of the bishops – most of them – stamp their feet and applaud. Eusebius’s smile lasts exactly as long as it takes for Constantine’s gaze to move off him.

Looking back now, I’m surprised I remember it so clearly. I haven’t thought about it often since. What happened so soon afterwards drove it out of my mind and changed everything. This is the broken stub of a story that never happened. It doesn’t fit.

You can say that fathers and sons are the same substance. You can write it in a creed subscribed by two hundred and forty-seven eminent Christians (Arius and two other zealots refused and went into exile). That doesn’t make it true.

The father creates the son. They’re not the same.