by Ross Laidlaw
‘As to the Council, you had no choice, sir,’ assured Aspar. (The long association between the two men had led to the dropping of the honorific ‘Your Serenity’.) ‘We simple soldiers may not like it, but this new world has to embrace religious obsessions – sorry, attitudes.’
‘Already, I’ve lost the thread of my reasons for convoking the assembly,’ groaned Marcian. He clapped Aspar on the shoulder. ‘Remind me, please, old friend. It was your idea in the first place.’
‘You may recall, sir, the case of one Eutyches who championed the monophysite doctrine that Christ has only one, wholly divine, nature. For this he was charged three years ago with heresy, and condemned by a small council at the instigation of Flavian, the Patriarch of Constantinople. Flavian received the backing of Pope Leo in the West, whose view – that Christ’s nature is both human and divine – of course directly contradicts monophysitism. A year later, however, the case came up for reconsideration at the Council of Ephesus. Dioscorus, the ultra-monophysite Patriarch of Alexandria was in the chair, and the council was packed with his episcopal supporters – staunchly monophysite Egyptians and fellow believers from Palestine.’
‘And the result was a foregone conclusion, I suppose?’
‘It could hardly be anything else, sir. The council’s verdict was to vindicate Eutyches, condemn Flavian, and set aside Pope Leo’s judgement as expressed in a written treatise, The Tome of Leo.’
Marcian frowned. ‘Forgive me, but I seem to be missing something. Exactly why is all this so important?’
Aspar laughed. ‘I confess my own head’s beginning to spin a bit. Essentially, it’s a political rather than a religious issue, and the nub is Constantinople, the imperial capital – your city. For Dioscorus of Alexandria to have humiliated Flavian of Constantinople is both a snub to the pope and a challenge to your authority.’
‘Thank you,’ said the Emperor. ‘It’s all coming clear now. Dioscorus must be taught a lesson and, very publicly, put in his place. Right? Everyone, in both empires, must be left in no doubt that, in matters of doctrine just as much as government, Constantinople, the seat of the Emperor and of his patriarch, has the final say. And the best way of ensuring that is to reopen the Eutyches case. By pitting Leo against Dioscorus, figuratively speaking, in public debate, and making sure that Leo wins, we shall establish our supremacy in the most telling manner possible. That’s the position more or less, isn’t it?’
‘Admirably summarized, sir. Flavian himself would be impressed.’
‘Then let’s drink to success.’ Signalling a slave to bring wine, the Emperor pointed to where, two miles distant on the opposite Asian shore, the neat little city of Chalcedon gleamed white in the warm October sun. ‘Looks peaceful, doesn’t it?’ he murmured. ‘But in a few days, now that the papal delegates have docked, it’ll be war to the death over there – metaphorically speaking – with no quarter given or taken. Mind you, with Rome, Constantinople, and the Eastern Emperor arrayed against them, I don’t see how the monophysites can win. Ah, here’s the wine.’ The slave filled goblets and handed them to the two men. Before raising his cup, Aspar dribbled a little wine on the ground.
‘Aspar?’ queried Marcian, with a puzzled frown.
‘A libation, sir. Just in case the old gods are watching. After all, we may as well enlist all the support we can.’
Black and hideous, the skull-like head of the mummified Saint Euphemia, martyred in the Great Persecution under Diocletian, grinned up at the two boys, junior singers of the church named for the saint, who gazed into the open coffin with a mixture of disgust and fascination.
‘Ugh!’ Simon, the younger, shuddered. ‘I don’t think I want to go on with this, George. Let’s go home.’
‘Afraid she’ll be waiting to grab you one dark night?’ mocked his companion, waving his arms and uttering low moans. ‘All right, all right,’ he went on hastily, seeing real fear register in his friend’s face. ‘Sorry. Come on, Simon, don’t back out now. It’ll be fun – just think of their faces when I pull that thread.’
‘All right,’ conceded Simon hesitantly. ‘But no more fooling.’
‘Choirboy’s honour,’ promised George solemnly. ‘You remember how to tie that slip-knot round her finger?’ Simon nodded, holding up a knife and a spool of black cobbler’s packthread. George went to the back of the church, climbed down the stairs leading to the crypt, and positioned himself below a small ventilation grille piercing the floor of the nave above. Presently, the end of a thread descended through the the grille. Taking hold of it, George called, ‘Ready?’
‘Ready,’ came back Simon’s voice from above.
George tugged, but the thread barely moved. He rejoined his friend, who said, ‘It’s catching on the edge of the coffin.’
George felt the lip of the casket’s head end. ‘Wood’s rough,’ he said. ‘Soon fix that.’ Taking one of the lighted candles from the altar, he dribbled wax on to the offending area. Having checked that the thread ran smoothly over the waxed surface, he returned to his post, and at the signal tugged again. This time, he was able to pull in several feet of thread, and after a tiny resistance drew in the rest.
‘Perfect,’ said Simon, sticking up a thumb as George returned to the nave. He pointed to the saint’s right arm, which now rested across the withered chest instead of along the mummy’s side.1 Pronouncing the rehearsal an unqualified success, they replaced the arm in its original position, then hurried giggling from the church.
Preceded by candle-bearers, chanting singers, censer-swingers, and acolytes, and headed by the Emperor and Empress, the commission and delegates making up the Fourth Ecumenical Council filed in solemn procession into the church of St Euphemia in Chalcedon. Members representing the monarchical bishopric of Rome and the patriarchate of Constantinople took their seats in the nave to the right of the altar, those of the patriarchates of Alexandria and Jerusalem to the left. Between the two groups, on raised benches behind the altar, were seated the commission or guiding panel of ten ministers and twenty-seven senators. Before the altar, like some mute and grisly president, in her open coffin lay the shrivelled corpse of St Euphemia. On her chest reposed a copy of The Tome of Leo.
In a brief address, Emperor Marcian welcomed the assembly and asked God to help steer them to a right decision; then he and Empress Pulcheria departed. The head of the panel then opened proceedings by summarizing the opposing positions of the Roman and Alexandrian parties, after which he invited the Roman lobby to comment.
A grizzled Gallic bishop was the first to speak. ‘Since Christ was born of woman, though begotten of the Holy Ghost,’ he began, speaking in a strong southern Gaulish accent, ‘it surely follows that His nature is both human and divine. Yet is He very God of very God, being of one substance with the Father.’
‘Amen to that,’ quavered an aged delegate from Thracia. ‘Nestorius, whom I knew when he was but a presbyter in Antioch, was right, you know. Christ Himself was not born, but only the man Jesus. Hence Mary cannot rightly be called the mother of God. Jesus was but a man; however, a man, er, clothed, as it were, by the Godhead, as with a garment.’
‘Sit down, you fool,’ hissed the delegate next to the Thracian. ‘Nestorianism was declared heresy at the Third Ecumenical Council.’ Standing, he addressed the panel. ‘I beg the Commission to excuse my reverend friend from Philippopolis. Clearly, his years have caused him to forget the Twelve Anathemas drawn up by Theophilus of Alexandria against Nestorius, and ratified by Pope Celestine.’
‘Yet those very Twelve Anathemas, formulated by my predecessor, were the basis of Eutyches’ doctrine that Christ has but one nature: divine!’ shouted an emaciated scarecrow with blazing eyes, from the opposite benches: Dioscorus. ‘The same Eutyches whose monophysite beliefs you now seek to condemn.’
‘Silence!’ thundered the convener. ‘I will not tolerate such unseemly interruptions. The Patriarch of Alexandria will have his chance to speak in due course and at the proper time. As for the delegate f
rom Philippopolis,’ he went on, glaring sternly at the offending cleric, ‘we will overlook his lapse on this occasion. But he would do well to bear in mind that Nestorius, whom he esteems so much, is languishing in exile in Egypt’s Great Oasis.
‘Now, to clarify the issues we are here assembled to discuss, I propose to ask my learned colleague on the panel, Zenobius of Mopsuestia, to expound the doctrines of an-homoios – that is, the Son as different from the Father – and homoios, which defines the Son as similar in essence with the Father; also homo-usios, which declares the Godhead to be of the same essence as the Father . . .’
Early in the morning of the Council’s final day, as soon as the sacristan had opened the doors of St Euphemia’s church to check that all was in order, George and Simon slipped inside and hid. When the sacristan had gone, they attached the thread to prepare their ‘surprise’, after which George descended to the crypt while Simon concealed himself behind a pillar. He had a clear view of the church’s interior, and was within easy reach of the staircase to the vault, so he could warn George when the moment arrived.
‘. . . and in conclusion,’ said the convener, ‘having heard and carefully weighed the arguments put forward by the disputing parties, and taken into consideration the preponderating view, I shall announce the findings of the Commission, which are as follows.’ He glanced around the assembled delegates: those supporting Leo looked eager and excited, the ones favouring Dioscorus sullen and subdued.
‘That Christ is both human and divine as stated in the sacred Tome of Leo, being of the same nature with the Father according to His divinity, and of the same nature with us according to His humanity, a union of the two natures having taken place, wherefore we confess one Christ, one Son, one Lord.
‘Accordingly, the doctrine that Christ has one nature only, that of God, is hereby declared to be anathema, and we decree that anyone subscribing to this doctrine be deemed a heretic.
‘In consequence whereof, the verdict of the Council of Ephesus, vindicating the Monophysite teaching of Eutyches is hereby declared null and void.
‘And moreover we decree that Dioscorus and those bishops of Egypt who supported him at Ephesus be now condemned, but that the rest, by reason that we think them more led astray than that they consented with a ready mind, be pardoned, provided they submit.
‘And now, with gracious thanks to Their Serenities Marcian and Valentinian, joint Augusti of our One and Indivisible Empire, to Leo, Monarchical Bishop of Rome, and to Flavian, Patriarch of Constantinople, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I declare this Council closed.’
As the convener finished speaking, a susurration, like leaves in the wind, arose from the assembly, mingled with gasps and cries of astonishment. All over the church, delegates rose to their feet, pointing to the body of the saint in its coffin. Incredibly, but indisputably, a stick-like arm was rising in the air; it reached the vertical, then flopped on to the mummy’s chest, its talons clutching at The Tome of Leo . . .
‘A miracle?’ said Marcian, angrily pacing the atrium of the villa in ‘the Oak’, Chalcedon’s most exclusive suburb. He had been assigned the sumptuous residence during the sitting of the Council, for ease in monitoring its progress. ‘This is the last thing we need, Aspar. Now the findings of the Council are going to have all the credibility of a fairground trick. The credulous fools. A corpse’s hand rising to clasp the Tome? I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life!’
‘I’m as puzzled as you are, sir,’ responded the general. ‘But they all swear they saw it – those who weren’t dozing at the back, that is. I don’t think we can just dismiss it, sir. Both John of Antioch and our own Flavian have confirmed they saw it happen, and a more hard-headed pair of pragmatists would be difficult to find.’
‘Then it must be a trick,’ fumed Marcian. ‘We’ve all heard of phials of saints’ “blood” which liquefy on certain days, or statues of the Virgin which supposedly weep real tears on Good Friday. It’s got to be something on those lines, or . . . Perhaps the warmer temperature in the nave, compared to that in the crypt whence the body was removed, made arm muscles contract. For God’s sake Aspar, don’t look at me like that – I know it sounds far-fetched. But a miracle? No, that I can’t accept.’
‘Why don’t we examine the lady for ourselves,’ suggested the general soothingly.
‘Good idea. Lead the way.’
‘No signs of interference, sir,’ pronounced Aspar, rising to his feet beside the coffin.
‘I have to agree,’ said Marcian reluctantly, dusting down his knees. ‘This bending isn’t good for my arthritis, you know,’ he grumbled; then abruptly, pointing down at the coffin’s head. ‘Hallo, what’s this?’
‘Just a blob of candle-grease,’ said Aspar, stooping to examine it.
Ignoring the stiffness in his knees, Marcian bent down to have a closer look. ‘There’s a mark here,’ he observed suspiciously. ‘Look,’ and he indicated a faint groove on the surface of the wax. ‘Something funny here, Aspar.’
‘You know, sir,’ said the general innocently, ‘I wonder if it might not be a mistake to be too thorough in attempting to disprove that a miracle occurred. After all, it’s bound to be seen as a manifestation of divine approval for the Council’s findings. Judiciously presented, the “miracle of Saint Euphemia” needn’t do us any harm.’ He paused, then added reflectively, ‘Any harm at all.’
‘Aspar, I can’t believe I heard you say that,’ said Marcian indignantly. ‘Not for a moment would I countenance such—’ He stopped, shook his head, then burst out laughing. ‘Well, perhaps you’re right. Sleeping dogs, eh? You old reprobate, there are times when I despair of you.’
1 Re the retention of pliability in some mummies’ limbs, see Notes p.439.
FIFTY-ONE
The sudden bursting of an artery flooded his lungs with a torrent of blood
Jordanes, Gothic History, 551
Fear gripped Attila as he awoke. He could not move. Every muscle was immobile, as though his whole body were clamped by bands of iron. He willed his flesh to respond; slowly, slowly, beginning with his hands and feet, the power of movement returned until he was able, painfully and stiffly, to rise from his couch. The condition, brought on by over-taxed muscles reacting after a long and punishing lifetime in the saddle, had begun some years ago and had gradually worsened, until now he dreaded retiring each night in case the morning found him alive but paralysed. He could imagine no greater horror. It would be like being buried alive. No, worse; because then the agony would swiftly pass, whereas this would be a living death.
Calling for his horse, he rode out from his palace far into the steppe, not drawing rein until he reached the foothills of the Carpathus, his refuge when he wished to be alone to commune with himself. In a mood of quiet desperation, he reviewed the happenings of recent months, and the likely shape of events to come. After the defeat by Aetius, he would have desired nothing better than to make peace with the Romans and spend the remainder of his days consolidating his great empire, and perhaps trying to salvage something of his abandoned plans for a Greater Scythia. But that path was closed to him for ever. Fate had decreed that, however much he might wish it otherwise, he must always lead his people in never-ending wars of conquest. So, tired and dispirited, he had last year invaded Italia. Aetius’ federate allies refused to serve outwith Gaul; with a limited number of Roman troops he could only harass, not seriously impede, the Hunnish horde. Worldly arms proving ineffective, the Romans had resorted to spiritual weapons; the fierce old pope (aptly named Leo, Attila thought), had met him at Lacus Benacus,1 urging him to withdraw forthwith, or risk incurring divine punishment. Rather than God’s wrath, however, it was the destruction of Aquileia, the sacking of Mediolanum and Ticinum,2 and the partial payment of Honoria’s dowry, commuted to gold, that had encouraged Attila to return home, without loss of face. But that was not enough. Even now, the Council was pressing for a fresh assault on Italia, should the Senate not deliver up Hono
ria herself.
He was, he thought with weary resignation, like the sharks that swim in Ocean, the mighty sea encompassing the earth: doomed to keep moving or sink into the vast depths and die, crushed by the unimaginable weight of water above. What had it all been for? he wondered. He was the oldest man he knew, yet his long life had accomplished nothing of lasting value. He had fame; the name of Attila would echo down the ages. But it was a fame based on the butchering of tens of thousands, of countless cities razed and lands laid waste. Was that a fame worth striving for? His was a barren legacy. Those closest to him he had lost: his brother Bleda, whose life he had been forced to take; Aetius, his one true friend, now become his deadliest foe. The vast empire he had forged, by leadership and ruthless will alone – could that survive his death? Or would his sons quarrel over their inheritance and, weakened and divided, fail to stop the subject nations breaking free and tearing it apart? Ellac and Dengish, his ablest sons, were brave and resolute, but in truth probably lacked the force of character to unite their siblings and hold the huge fabric together.
