by Tom Harper
‘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 f
or 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.
XXXIII
Belgrade, Serbia – Present Day
THIS CITY SINGIDUNUM – Belgrade – was a fortress looking down on the barbarians across the Danube, Nikolić had said. The fortress was still there, now called the Kalemegdan Citadel. Over time the Roman foundations had been built on by medieval Serbs, Ottoman Turks and Austro-Hungarians: almost two thousand years of fortification. A reproduction red banner hung from a lamp post, emblazoned with a golden lion and the words Leg IIII Flavia Felix, in honour of the ‘lucky’ fourth legion who’d originally built the fort. Seeing it there was a shock. Abby remembered peering through the magnifier in Shai Levin’s lab, seeing the same lion and the same inscription on the dead man’s belt buckle.
Was he here? Am I following him?
Now the castle was a park, a leafy enclave where paths wound through the old fortifications, sprawled over the end of the promontory where the Sava and the Danube met. In summer it was a popular destination for tourists and locals alike. This late in the autumn it was usually reserved for a few dog-walkers and joggers – but today seemed to be an exception. Metal barriers cordoned off a route along one of the lower paths; athletic men with numbers pinned to their chests milled about, waiting for some kind of race to begin. A few hardy spectators lined the barricades. A lone ice-cream vendor stood by his cart near the entrance, reading a magazine.
A plastic panel gave a map of the citadel, and a brief history. ‘Kalemegdan means “Battleground Fortress”,’ Michael read. ‘Looks peaceful enough today.’ He studied the map. ‘Gruber said he’d meet us by the Victory Monument.’
They followed a stony path around the edge of the summit to the very tip of the promontory, where a brick terrace thrust out high above the Sava. A white column stood on it, supporting a copper-green god striding forward into the air: twenty feet tall, naked, with absurdly sculpted muscles and a laurel crown circling his head. Below the terrace, steep bluffs dropped towards the river. A black sign in Serbian and English warned: Walking in this area you risk your life.
Gruber hadn’t arrived.
‘I’ll wait by the monument,’ Michael told Abby. ‘You keep out of sight. Just in case anything goes wrong.’
She stood by the parapet and stared down at the two rivers. Even in this city of a million and half inhabitants, she could feel the wilderness. Look one way and you saw the concrete high-rises of Novi Belgrad, the traffic crossing the bridges and the rusting derricks of the docks. But look the other way, up the river, and you saw an overwhelming forest, seeming to stretch unbroken eastwards to the horizon. It was easy to imagine a Roman sentry standing there at the end of the world – the river the colour of lead, the sky the colour of smoke – scanning the forest and wondering what might stir from within it.
She shook herself free of the illusion: this wasn’t the time for daydreaming. She glanced back at the monument. Michael was standing there, but not alone:
he was chatting to a young blonde woman with a pushchair, talking easily and laughing about something. In the distance, the race announcer barked instructions through a loudspeaker.
She shook her head again and tried to keep down the jealousy. Michael was the sort of person others warmed to: in a foreign country, a language he barely spoke, he could still strike up a conversation. Particularly if the other person was young, attractive and female.
Michael leaned over the pushchair and ruffled the child’s hair. He said something to the woman; she laughed and pulled back, flapping her arm at him in a mock-scolding gesture. Still laughing, she waved goodbye and started wheeling the pushchair back along the path. Michael looked across the terrace and caught Abby’s eye. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Nothing to worry about.
But someone was coming from around the wall behind him – a tall, thin man in a long black coat, with walnut-brown skin and a bristling black moustache. Gruber. He had a briefcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other. He walked stiffly, ill at ease; he saw Michael and crossed straight to him, not noticing Abby loitering by the parapet.
She watched it in dumbshow. Michael reached to shake Gruber’s hand, smiling broadly; Gruber’s hands stayed sunk in his coat pockets. He said something terse. Michael nodded, still smiling. He lifted up the blue zip-up bag they’d bought from a sports shop and patted it, as you would a horse.
Gruber won’t dare count that much money in public, Michael had predicted. He’ll have a quick look, see what he’s expecting
– and find out it’s ninety thousand short when it’s too late.
Gruber unzipped the bag and peered inside. The frown on his face deepened. On the far side of the terrace, the ice-cream seller wandered past, looking for customers.
Gruber pointed at the parapet. For a moment, Abby thought he’d seen her. Michael seemed to argue, then put up his hands in a have-it-your-way gesture and followed Gruber across. They stopped a few yards away. Michael rested the bag on the low wall.
