‘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.
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.’