by Ross Laidlaw
From Anicius Julianus, Senator, to Procopius Caesariensis, Chronicler, Ave.
Dear ‘Regulus’, most loyal, courageous, and efficient of colleagues, I write in haste, a) to thank you for your sterling efforts on behalf of Libertas, b) alas, to inform you that Libertas itself is now dissolved, and c) to warn you to destroy instanter any correspondence relating to our Cause. My cover, as they say, is ‘blown’. Justinian’s agentes have at last caught up with me, and I am ordered to report to the monastery of Saint Catherine on Mount Sinai, there to do penance for my ‘treason’ for the remainder of my days. I am as sure as I can be that your connection with Libertas is at present unsuspected and will probably remain so, provided you are circumspect.
Before the net closed in on me (and my senior lieutenants), I was able to honour the pledges you had made to our friends in Africa and Rome. Good Fortune attend you always. We may have failed, but at least we struck a blow for Roman values. Vale.
Written at Ancona, Nones Februarii, A.R.U.C., the two hundred and eighteenth.*
Post Scriptum
We shall not meet again, dear friend. The climate on Mount Sinai I suspect I’d find most disagreeable, and the monastic life insufferably tedious. So, in the best Roman tradition, I intend to open my veins in the bath (no doubt while reading some uplifting stanzas of Horace or Catullus).
* 542.
* The Asinarian Gate was opened on 17 December 546.
** Now Porto, at the mouth of the Tiber.
† 20 December 546.
* 5 February 547.
TWENTY-SIX
There are two natures of Christ united in respect of His one hypostasis*
Leontius of Jerusalem, Against the Monophysites, 532
The triple calamity of pestilence, the phenomenon that was Totila, and insurgency in Africa had put on hold that other aspect of Justinian’s Grand Plan — the establishment of religious uniformity throughout the Empire. But, with Belisarius now back in Italy, thanks to the resumption of (no doubt temporary) Eternal Peace with Persia,** General John ‘the Troglite’ — Anastasius’ successor — beginning to turn the tide of insurrection in Africa, and the plague having spent itself, the now fully recovered emperor looked forward with relish to confronting the challenge (thus far unresolved) of bridging the gulf between the rival creeds of Chalcedonian Orthodoxy and Monophysitism.
In his mind, Justinian reviewed the field of battle as it looked at present. The successful machinations of Theodora and Antonina had secured the throne of Peter for Vigilius, a Monophysite sympathiser,† thus ‘planting’ a potentially heretical pontiff in the ultra-Chalcedonian West! In the East, apart from Constantinople (where the Patriarch, Menas, was staunchly Chalcedonian), much of the Empire, especially the wealthy and important dioceses of Egypt and Oriens, the latter comprising Syria and Palestine, were passionately Monophysite. To an emperor more cynical and less idealistic than Justinian (a man, say, of Khusro’s stamp), this potentially schismatic situation might have been shrugged off — a tiresome but essentially unimportant dichotomy. But Justinian was no cynic, and he was nothing if not idealistic. If the situation were allowed to drift, the Empire, in his opinion, was in danger of splitting into two mutually irreconcilable camps. It was his duty, as both emperor and Christ’s vicegerent upon earth, to ensure this did not happen. To help him in his search for a solution, he sent for Theodore Ascidas, Metropolitan of Caesarea, an ambitious, worldly, and intelligent cleric, who loved nothing better than the cut-and-thrust of intellectual debate. .
‘You’re in a fix, Serenity,’ chuckled Ascidas, pouring himself a chaliceful of communion wine from the flagon on the altar. The two men were in Saint Irene’s in the capital, consecrated a dozen years before. ‘In Africa and Italy,’ went on the bishop, a well-fleshed individual with a pleasant, lived-in face, ‘- especially Italy, what with Totila making things hard for Belisarius, you can’t afford not to keep the Romans on side. Not if you hope to hold the West, once you’ve reconquered it — again. And to keep those West Romans on side, you’ve got to be seen to be the champion of Chalcedonian Orthodoxy. For which you absolutely have to have the support of the Roman Church establishment, an institution that has largely filled the power-vacuum created by the absence of a Western emperor. Let the Romans of the West suspect you for a moment of going soft on the Monophysites — ’ Ascidas took a swig from the jewelled, silver cup and beamed at the emperor. ‘Then your credibility’s gone. I trust I’m making myself clear, Serenity.’
‘Only too clear,’ confirmed Justinian glumly. ‘I hear what you say, Ascidas, but unfortunately I can’t afford to crack down too hard on the Monophysites. Not since this firebrand priest, Jacob Baradaeus, has stirred up the Monophysite majority in Egypt, Syria, and Asia Minor to defy the Chalcedonian hierarchy. Why, in Alexandria alone, demonstrations against Zoilus, the Orthodox Patriarch, forced the man to flee. And there’s not a thing I can do about it; not unless I want a revolution on my hands. And, to make my position even more invidious, this wretched Jacob has the backing of my wife.’ The emperor paced the nave distractedly, before sitting on the lowest tier of concentric stone benches that formed the nether portion of the church’s apse. ‘But I asked you here to help me find some answers,’ he went on, with a reproachful glance at Ascidas, ‘not just present me with a string of problems.’
‘Patience, Serenity. Diagnosis comes before the cure. What we must do is find some common ground on which both Chalcedonians and Monophysites can unite.’
‘Common ground?’ The emperor laughed bitterly. ‘Something I’ve been searching for since I put on the diadem. If you can find that for me, I’ll be forever in your debt.’
‘Think, Serenity,’ invited the bishop with a reassuring smile. ‘The Blues and Greens are even more divided than are Rome and Alexandria, yet once they did make common cause.’
‘You mean, during the Nika riots — against myself? Don’t bother to spare my feelings, will you?’
‘Apologies, Serenity — nothing personal intended. But you take my point. The most effective way of uniting opponents is to find a common enemy. Allow me therefore to explain the Ascidas Plan — something which could be fittingly entitled, “The Condemnation of the Three Chapters”. .’
In an auditorium of Rome’s Lateran Palace, hard by the Asinarian Gate,* Stephen, the Pope’s apocrisiarius or legate, a tall, commanding figure with a great eagle’s beak of a Roman nose, stood to address the mass of clergy he had hastily convoked. In his hand he held an Edict, just arrived from Constantinople.
‘His Holiness, Pope Vigilius, is unable to attend,’ announced the legate, ‘because he is en route to Constantinople, by invitation of the emperor.’ He glared sternly round the assembly. ‘The reason for the summons, I suspect, is so that Justinian can exert direct pressure on Vigilius to get him to agree to this.’ Angrily, Stephen waved the Edict in the air. ‘This is the emperor’s latest trick to force us to compromise with the Monophysites.’ He paused, then went on, his voice rising to a shout, ‘Well, he must imagine that we’re idiots, to think we’re going to fall for it! The content is: a condemnation of certain century-old writings — ‘Chapters’ he calls them — by Theodore of Mopsuestia, Theoderet of Cyrus, and Ibas of Edessa.’
‘The significance of which is — what exactly?’ enquired a puzzled-looking deacon.
‘The three writers were all Nestorians,’ replied Stephen. ‘For the benefit of those of you whose knowledge of ancient ecclesiastical history may be sketchy, I shall endeavour to explain. Back in the time of Emperor Theodosius the Second, one Nestorius, a Patriarch of Constantinople, propounded the doctrine that Christ was essentially a man, but a man onto whom God grafted a divine nature, making Him a single entity you could call a God-man. After the Council of Chalcedon, such a doctrine was naturally obnoxious both to Chalcedonians for whom Christ has two natures, human and divine, and also to the Monophysites, who believe that Christ has only one, divine, nature.’
‘So, if I’ve understood y
ou aright, Apocrisiarius,’ put in a presbyter in tones half-disbelieving, half-exasperated, ‘in condemning the writings of these three disciples of Nestorius, who was anathema to Chalcedonians and Monophysites alike, Justinian’s hoping to curry favour with both sects. How? By reheating a forgotten controversy from the past, on which, at the time, they both happened to share the same view. Surely that does absolutely nothing to resolve the fundamental differences between the two creeds? This Edict seems to me just a crude attempt to paint over the cracks.’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ concurred Stephen warmly.
‘This is classic Justinian,’ fumed a bishop. ‘All smoke and mirrors, designed to obfuscate what he’s really trying to do — make concessions to a foul Egyptian heresy. Well, I for one refuse to subscribe to such a shabby ruse.’
‘And I!. . And I!. .’ An angry chorus of agreement erupted throughout the chamber.
‘Who the hell does Justinian think he is, laying down the law on matters of theology?’ shouted a fiery-eyed lector. ‘That’s for the Pope and the Patriarch of Constantinople to decide. This whole charade’s a blatant con, designed to fob us off!’
Which pretty well summed up the mood of the assembly, and, when news of the Edict reached the streets, of Rome itself, eventually of all of Italy and Africa. Within a few weeks, the Condemnation of the Three Chapters had become, so far as the West was concerned, as dead a letter as the Laws of Hammurabi, the Edict viewed as a Trojan Horse to sneak in concord with Monophysitism by the back door.
In the East, the Edict was received with scarcely more enthusiasm than in the West. What the Monophysite clergy (now in the ascendant, thanks to the evangelizing clout of Jacob Baradaeus) wanted, was not the condemnation of Nestorius but the creed of Chalcedon itself. However, made subject, by Geography, to direct pressure from Justinian and Menas, the strongly Chalcedonian Patriarch of Constantinople, most of them reluctantly gave their assent to the imperial decree — a surrender which, in Menas’ case, resulted in his excommunication by a furious and disgusted Stephen.*
Arriving in Constantinople,** Vigilius was welcomed at the harbour by Justinian himself. Treated with respect and cordiality as an honoured and distinguished guest, the Pontiff nonetheless soon found himself under pressure (relentless though courteously applied) from his imperial host — and in a quandary. Vigilius, a covert Monophysite, owed his election as Pope to the machinations of Theodora who, as a quid pro quo, expected him to promote the Monophysite cause in the West: a virtually impossible commission, considering the loathing in which the staunchly Chalcedonian West Romans held the eastern creed. An arch-trimmer and survivalist, Vigilius, however, had brought off a tricky balancing act. Keeping his Monophysite sympathies to himself, he had avoided offending the Western clergy, while at the same time keeping Theodora at bay with endless excuses regarding the delay in proselytizing on behalf of Monophysitism.
But now, a virtual prisoner in the eastern capital with both emperor and empress holding him to account, the wily Pope could vacillate no longer. Yielding to the inevitable, Vigilius handed to Justinian and Theodora* a signed statement declaring his condemnation of the Three Chapters. Fully aware that if this became public knowledge in the West his authority as Pope would disappear, he managed to persuade the imperial couple that his signed statement should remain secret until he, Vigilius, had had time to hold a final enquiry into the views expressed in the Three Chapters. Breathing a huge sigh of relief at obtaining this all-important concession, Vigilius set about preparing his case against the moment of truth when he must reveal his stance regarding the Three Chapters — whatever that stance should turn out to be.
In his luxurious suite in Constantinople’s Palace of Placidia, Vigilius stared at his reflection in the looking-glass. What had happened, he wondered, to that sleek young deacon who, eleven years before, had — thanks to Theodora and Antonina — found himself the occupant of Peter’s Throne? That his promotion had involved the deposition and subsequent ‘disappearance’ of Pope Silverius had not cost the ambitious cleric any sleep; climbing the ladder of success necessarily involved stamping on others’ fingers on the rungs. What had put lines on those once-smooth cheeks and thinned a luxurious mop to a few greying strands on a balding pate, was the strain of constantly having to maintain a precarious balance between fobbing off Theodora and keeping up a pro-Chalcedonian front for the benefit of Western bishops.
In practice, what this had entailed was endless procrastination regarding his promise to Theodora, involving the fabrication of convincing reasons as to why it was never quite the right time to keep his side of the bargain. For let the clergy and people of Italy once suspect him of compromising with what they saw as heresy, the ensuing uproar could bring about his downfall. And that, he was determined, he would never allow to happen. He relished the feel of the pallium about his shoulders far too much to let another take it from him.
Yet there was a very real and present risk of precisely that happening. Time had finally run out for Vigilius. For today he must address the synod formally convoked to enquire into the views expressed in the Three Chapters. And, in addressing the synod, composed of seventy bishops from the West, he must finally reveal that he had signed that statement condemning the Three Chapters — news that would be as welcome to the bishops, as a side of bacon in a synagogue. It would take all of his negotiating skills to tread a safe path through the maze of theological pitfalls that awaited him.
‘. . and after diligently perusing the aforementioned Chapters of Theodore, Theoderet, and Ibas, and carefully weighing up the views expressed therein, I came to the conclusion — a surprising one to me, I must confess — that these were in fact extremely dangerous men whose ideas, unless anathematized, could lead men into heresy. Consider this, my friends.’ Looking round the seventy attentive faces in the audience chamber, Vigilius assumed an expression of meekness and humility, then went on, ‘Nestorius, whose views these men subscribed to, held that the Virgin Mary was not the Theotokos or Mother of God, but the mother of the man Jesus only, not of the divine Christ. I ask you, as a humble seeker after truth, can such a view be tenable?’ (In fact, Vigilius hadn’t the faintest idea if it was tenable or otherwise. He had never read the works of Theodore et al., and was simply parroting the words of the ecclesiastic assigned by Justinian to ‘enlighten’ him.)
From the speculative murmur that broke out following his question, Vigilius felt that he had at least sown a seed of doubt in the minds of his hearers. He sensed that the atmosphere in the chamber had subtly changed from suspicion verging on hostility at the inception of the meeting, to one of interest that was not unsympathetic. Their entrenched opposition to condemning the Three Chapters was perhaps beginning to erode. Sufficiently, at least, to allow his own position in the matter (or rather the position he had been forced to adopt) to be accorded a fair hearing. Vigilius began to entertain the hope that he might even win them round. A hope, however, that was destined to be dashed.
A hand was raised, and on Vigilius’ nod a huge figure rose — Facundus, bishop of Hermiane in Africa and a famous scholar. Outstanding in appearance on account of his great size and coal-black skin, Facundus seemed to radiate an indefinable air of presence and personal magnetism. Most African Romans were of Berber or Italian stock, the latter mainly descended from settlers who had arrived following Rome’s victory against Carthage in the Punic Wars. But a few hailed from Africa the continent, rather than the diocese: from Nubia or Axum, even from beyond the Great Sand Sea. Such a Roman citizen was Tertius Facundus.
‘My thanks, Your Holiness, for granting me permission to speak in this august assembly,’ acknowledged Facundus, speaking in a richly booming rumble that someone had once described as ‘like thunder laced with cream’. Smiling, he addressed his audience. ‘Vigilius, with admirable clarity, has summarized the stance taken by Nestorius regarding the relation of the Virgin Mary to the Son. Was she Theotokos, the Mother of God, or simply the mother of Jesus the man? If
the latter, then His Divinity must have been conferred by God alone.’ The bishop paused, then lowering his voice, went on, ‘No doubt what I now have to say will sound to some of you controversial, nay, heretical even. But I put it to you: does this issue of the status of the Virgin Mary really matter? To my mind, it seems in essence a distraction, an irrelevance which obscures what we should chiefly be concerned about: the true nature of the Christ himself. Of infinitely greater importance in the teaching of Nestorius has to be the fact that he acknowledges the dual nature of Christ — that He was both human and divine. Which is the very essence of our Chalcedonian creed — something that Ibas of Edessa in especial, homes in on in his Chapter, a Chapter to which the Council of Chalcedon itself gave its approval.’
A tense and prickling silence reigned throughout the chamber as Facundus surveyed his rapt audience. ‘Wake up, my friends!’ he declared in ringing tones. ‘This Edict is nothing but a shabby cover-up. If we condemn the Three Chapters, we condemn the very faith which every one of us holds dear — Chalcedonian Orthodoxy!’
All over the great room bishops leapt excitedly to their feet, shouting their approval of Facundus’ words: ‘Down with the Edict!. . Down with Justinian!. . Up with the Three Chapters!. . Long live Facundus!. . Shame on you, Vigilius!. .’
With a surge of panic, Vigilius realized that any hope he might have entertained of persuading the bishops to condemn the Chapters was now dead beyond recovery. Obeying his instinct to play for time, he declared the meeting at an end — a statement greeted with noisy resentment. Raising his voice to be heard above the hubbub, he cried, ‘Fellow bishops, you have made your feelings plain. Rest assured, I shall take due cognizance of this when, in due course, I announce my verdict. Depart in peace, my friends, and may Christ’s blessing be upon you all.’
