Caesars lord, p.35
Caesar's Lord, page 35
“I will tell you exactly what I observed from Quintus. He gave a demonstration with all his people watching. He placed two identical apples upon the altar. Then he cut one with a knife and ate the bite. After he had swallowed it, he said, ‘Delicious! Now I shall try this other one to see if it’s just as good.’ But when he pressed it hard with his knife, it crumbled into dust.”
“Crumbled? Like chalk?”
“Yes. The apple was made of plaster and painted red. It was from the theater, as when craftsmen make props to use in plays.”
“And what was the point of Quintus’s little lesson?”
“He held up a piece of the plaster apple and said something like this: ‘Just as this apple looks real but is not, so was the body of Jesus Christ. He looked like a real man to the eyes of the apostles. But for a god to become a man is unworthy of a divine being. If Christ is one with God, he cannot be one with mankind. His body only seemed to be human. But in fact, it was an illusion.’”
“That is the heresy of the Docetists!” Flavia exclaimed. “It has plagued the church since the earliest days when Gnosticism was rampant.”
“And now it has arisen again under a new name,” Rufus agreed.
Rex nodded grimly. “The Manichaeans are a sect with many followers, all of whom have been ordered to sneak into the churches and spread this false doctrine.”
As Sylvester contemplated the dire news, he felt a mixture of anger at the threat to his sheep and zeal to defend them from theological harm. Rising from his throne, he announced, “This danger warrants drastic measures. Vitus and Candida, I want you to meet me at the front steps of this palace in one hour. I will take you with me on an essential errand. In the meantime, prepare yourselves in prayer. We have some high-level business to conduct.”
At the appointed time, Sylvester met the married couple at the palace entrance just as he had said. He had donned his most formal attire and wore fine leather shoes. All his other appointments for the day had been postponed.
The threesome headed east beside the city wall and soon came to the Sessorian Palace. The grand old mansion was home to two empresses, and it was about to house an emperor as well. A church messenger had been sent ahead to alert Empress Helena that the pope wished an audience with her about a pressing matter. Helena had received the message with approval and replied that she would make her throne room ready.
After entering the palace, Sylvester was shown to the throne room in a reversal of the way his day had started. Now he was the one bringing petitions that needed attention from a more powerful person. Though the inversion of roles was humbling, Sylvester reminded himself that humility was the hallmark of a pastor—just as it was the mark of the Savior who had humbled himself to become a man and die a criminal’s death.
“Welcome, Holy Father,” Helena said when Sylvester was escorted into the hall by two imperial bodyguards. Her tone seemed more friendly than formal. “And greetings to you also, Brother Rex and Sister Flavia. What urgent matter brings such reputable visitors before me today?”
“A grave concern, Your Majesty. It is the heresy of the Manichaeans. I have it on good authority from these eyewitnesses”—Sylvester gestured toward his two Christian spies—“that the sect is planning a major offensive maneuver against God’s church.”
“You use the language of war,” Helena observed. “What kind of ‘maneuver’ is being devised?”
When Sylvester indicated that Rex should speak, he stepped forward with crisp military bearing and said, “They will turn the Nicene Creed against the catholics, Your Majesty. Because it so clearly affirms the deity of Christ, they have declared that our Lord cannot be a true man. They take an either-or view on this. If God, then not a man.”
Helena gave a small shrug. “One might call this erroneous, or even blasphemous. Yet to be a Manichee is no crime—unless you wish me to start a persecution against them?”
“Never!” Sylvester cried. “Such a thing is far from the mind of any Christian. We do not deal out the violence and bloodshed that has been wreaked upon us.”
“What then do you seek from me?”
“I am not sure,” Sylvester admitted. “I came here today with an open mind. Does so pious an empress have any ideas about how to handle this situation?”
Helena tilted her chin and gazed at the ceiling as she considered the matter for a few moments. Finally, she said, “My son shall arrive soon in Rome. He could issue directives that do not persecute yet mandate true belief in Christ for all the citizenry.”
Although Flavia had been silent so far, she spoke up now in a way that was both humble and firm. “Compelled belief is no belief at all, my lady. People must be persuaded by the inherent truth of an idea, not by laws and edicts from on high.”
Helena nodded gently. “Well stated, Junia Flavia. Such is my conviction as well.” The empress turned back to Sylvester. “How about some public debates, then? Let the people engage with the ideas on both sides and determine the truth for themselves.”
“That approach has been tried,” Sylvester replied. “In Alexandria, they did it with the Arians. Nothing was achieved except for each side to harden into even more vehement factions, like the supporters of the chariot teams.”
“It is true,” Rex agreed. “I was part of all that. It didn’t work.”
Helena raised her palms and shrugged. “Then are we defeated, my friends? Is prayer the only recourse we have left? Prayer is powerful, of course. But God wishes us to couple our prayers with resolute deeds upon a wise course of action. Our problem is that we can’t seem to find an action to perform.”
Sylvester did, in fact, feel that he had reached a dead end. He was about to bid Helena farewell for now and retire to consider the matter further when Rex did something strange. The tall barbarian knelt and touched the floor. “I remember what you once scattered here,” he said to the empress on her throne. “You poured out the soil of Hierusalem so that this might be holy ground. I believe we should find our solution by considering that holy city.”
“Go on,” Helena invited. “Your words intrigue me.”
Rex stood up so he could properly address the queen. “Hierusalem is the city of David. His psalms show us his deep love for God. David’s spiritual zeal kept Israel’s heart turned toward the Lord. A leader like that can carry a nation’s faith on his shoulders. Today we need a new King David to lead the Romans to God through his godly example.”
For a long time, Helena was silent as she contemplated Rex’s words. Sylvester understood not to speak too quickly but to linger in the silence and let the empress process her thoughts. Lord, give her wisdom, he prayed. Let the outcome of this meeting be from you!
When Helena was finally ready to speak, a sadness seemed to descend upon her. “This idea will not work,” she announced, “at least not for Rome.”
Sylvester was surprised to hear the empress be so negative. “Why not?”
“Because my son will never make his permanent home in this city. Constantine hates Rome because he feels unwelcome here. The senators annoy him like gnats. The old bureaucracy feels to him like a valve that has rusted shut. Perhaps while he is here, his faith in Christ could serve as the public example you seek. But as soon as he leaves—which he certainly will—the Romans will lapse back into their old ways.”
Sylvester felt a new pang of discouragement at these words. Although he had thought Rex’s idea was brilliant, he now realized that Helena was right. Constantine was no solution. Even if he were pious enough to influence the populace toward God, he wouldn’t stay around long enough to make substantive changes in Roman society.
“Your Majesty, may I clarify something?” Rex asked.
“Of course,” the empress said. “What is it?”
“When I spoke of a new King David, I was well aware that your son wouldn’t remain in Rome. His future is in Byzantium—or New Rome, as they call it now. Constantine isn’t our King David. He represents someone else in my biblical comparison.”
Helena leaned forward in her seat. “Who?”
“He is Jesse, my lady.”
Now the throne room fell silent. Sylvester watched as a dawning smile came to Helena’s face, which couldn’t help but bring one to his own as well. Each person here knew the scriptures well enough to catch Rex’s intended meaning. Jesse was King David’s father.
“This is truly a noble idea!” the empress exclaimed.
Sylvester thought so too. “It is time for the city of Rome to have a permanent Christian caesar,” he declared. “An orthodox and catholic leader who will guide his people in the ways of the Lord. Like King David of old, he shall lead the citizens to godly worship.”
“All hail Caesar Crispus!” Helena cried.
Sylvester lifted his gaze to the heavens. “And all hail Caesar’s Lord!”
Though the queasiness in Empress Fausta’s stomach was unpleasant, it was nothing compared to her dismay at what it probably meant. She stared listlessly at her morning meal of honeyed bread, trying not to think about the facts that burdened her mind. Last month, she missed her womanly flow, and now it had happened again. She was unusually tired. Her breasts were tender and swollen. She had felt nauseated every morning for the past week. Convincing herself it was from too much wine, she had abstained from strong drink the previous evening. Yet here was that same morning sickness, plaguing her again.
Fausta could take no more of the honey’s sweet odor, so she shoved away the plate. But getting rid of the repugnant food didn’t alleviate the nausea. She hurried to the chamber pot, retched twice, then vomited into it. After wiping her mouth, she finally accepted the truth.
I am with child.
A tiny bit of comfort came from acknowledging the dreadful fact. Though it was scary, at least the mental effort of denial was over. Perhaps the anticipation was worse than the actual consequences? But then Fausta’s inner voice of warning kicked in. Your husband is going to be furious! You’ve had no marital union that could make the child his. Fausta, admit it—you’ve got an imperial bastard on your hands. What are you going to do about it?
There was no question that she had to do something drastic. A queen who conceived out of wedlock was—at minimum—an outcast. Fausta knew she would be kicked out of the palace and exiled to some remote place. Poverty and shame would be her lot for the rest of her life, assuming she wasn’t killed by her enraged husband. Constantine had a terrible temper when he felt betrayed. His Christian faith might not be enough to stop his violent rampage.
A maid entered the room to empty the chamber pot, but Fausta waved her away from it. “Go find the bodyguard Pantera,” she ordered. “Send him here through the servants’ halls so no one will see him.”
A short while later, Fausta’s lover arrived at her room. He tried to greet her warmly, but she kept him at a distance. “I am carrying your child.”
Pantera paused as he absorbed the news. “Did you not take the wild carrot elixir?” he finally asked.
“I missed it a few times!” Fausta snapped. “What do you want me to do? Am I Chronos, that I can roll back the wheel of time and do it over again?”
“Be at peace, my darling,” Pantera soothed. “I have a remedy for you. I know a woman who handles things like this.”
Pantera’s comforting words actually did give Fausta some hope, for she desperately wanted a solution. “Who is it?”
“I will take you to her tonight. In the meantime, have a slave bring you the ragged tunic and cloak of a peasant, then meet me at the side door when full darkness has set in.”
Fausta fretted and paced around her chambers all day. When dusk arrived, she stared out her window. The stubborn sun seemed reluctant to go down. Finally, when the sky was black, Fausta donned a long cloak over her plain woolen tunic, pulled the hood over her head, and exited through the kitchen into an alley beside the palace. Pantera was there with a torch. “Follow me,” he said.
The furtive twosome walked to the Gardens of Pallas, a lush park with umbrella pines and manicured hedges. The gurgle of trickling water from a nymphaeum obscured the sounds of their footfalls. Eventually, they came to a city gate whose archway supported an aqueduct. After Pantera slipped the night watchman a coin, he opened a small door that led onto the Labicana Way.
Once she had exited the city, Fausta glanced apprehensively at her surroundings. As was common at most of Rome’s gates, an opportunistic little community had sprung up here. Though it probably bustled with activity during the daytime, everything was quiet now. Empty stalls lined the road for vendors who hawked their cheap wares by day and retreated into their hovels at night. Litter bearers could also be hired during daylight hours, since mule-drawn carts were forbidden in the city. Hostlers provided stabling for the animals of newly arrived travelers, while ramshackle inns offered sleep or other pleasures in exchange for a few copper coins. It was a shabby environment. Fausta felt disgust for the filthy, money-grubbing denizens of this makeshift village.
“I’m going back to the palace,” she told Pantera. “I can’t stand this place.”
“No! Stay with me, my darling. We’re almost at our destination. I promise you, it’ll be worth it. All your problems will soon be gone.”
Fausta acquiesced, so Pantera led her to a dilapidated cottage at the edge of the village. Behind it was nothing but the empty darkness of the suburban landscape. Rays of yellow light escaped through the cracks in the house’s crumbling mortar. After Pantera rapped on the door, a croaky voice said, “Enter!” He pushed open the door and ducked as he went inside. Fausta reluctantly followed him.
The one-room cottage was lit by a single oil lamp. Its walls were lined with shelves filled with terracotta jars of all sizes. There was no bed, only a pallet upon the floor. A workbench occupied the center of the room, its surface littered with mortars, pestles, and glass bottles. And behind the workbench was the most wrinkled woman Fausta had ever seen. Yet while her face was shriveled like a prune, her eyes were lively and bright, even bewitching.
“I am called Pharmakis,” the old hag said. “I welcome all visitors into my home, whether human or divine.”
“We are human,” Fausta said firmly.
“Are you? Who really knows?” The cryptic statement drew a cackle from Pharmakis. Shaking away the thought, she reached to a vial and inspected it by the lamplight. “Pantera tells me you might wish to purchase this.”
Fausta eyed the green bottle. “What is it?”
“An essence of bitter herbs known only to me. The shepherds of the mountains bring me what I need. Or sometimes I meet traders from afar. Every road leads to Rome, you know. But only one road leads away.”
Fausta had no idea what that meant. Before she could even guess, the old woman said in a matter-of-fact voice, “You are pregnant. You wish to abort your child. This potion will surely do the deed. Yet all sorcery takes its toll. You must be prepared for that.”
Abortion! It wasn’t something Fausta had yet considered, at least not from a potion. Peasant women were known to drink strange brews, but the upper classes typically withdrew to some quiet retreat where a doctor would prescribe hot baths, bloodletting, and vigorous shaking for several days. If that didn’t work, there were surgical options. But potions were fearful, magical things. Only witches dealt in such enchanted concoctions. Indeed, that was what Pharmakis’s nickname meant: a sorceress. Fausta wasn’t sure she was prepared for such a drastic approach.
“What effects will this potion have?” she asked the witch.
“A violent one, no doubt! There will be pain. There will be groaning, retching, and bleeding from the nethers. But it will last only a day . . . no more than two. And my result is guaranteed, with no permanent effects. The same can’t be said for the doctors’ silly methods. They often don’t work. And they leave lasting damage to the body.”
Horrified by these words, Fausta spun to face Pantera, who was standing quietly to the side. “You never should have brought me to this miserable house!” she complained. “Can you imagine such things happening to me in the palace? Everyone would hear it. The rumors would fly. I’d be judged guilty of adultery even without the baby. This is no solution at all!”
For the first time, Pantera’s face turned fearful. “Think of me, my darling!” he pleaded. “If you are found out, I’ll be crucified. I cannot face such agony! Persevere in this plan, I beg you!”
“You are just a commoner,” Fausta said coldly. “Your agony means little in comparison to mine.”
Staggered by these words, Pantera could make no reply. Only Pharmakis seemed undisturbed by the turbulent emotions swirling in the cottage. She sorted through the vials on her workbench until she found the one she wanted. It was made of red glass and had a cork stopper. “The dark world offers many kinds of magic,” she said in her raspy voice. “I could offer you a different route to reach your desired end.”
“We’ll try anything!” Pantera cried. “What is it?”
“If you can’t remove the child, your other option is to blame it upon a rapist. This potion will stupefy a man and dull his memory. All you have to do is drug some lecherous fool and bring him naked to your bed. Then cry for help and claim there was a violent encounter. No one will doubt your word against his, and he won’t have the wits to deny it. Every husband understands that a ravished wife is guilty of no crime. His fury will be directed at the culprit instead of at you.”
The devious idea instantly appealed to Fausta. It didn’t require abortion by surgery or potions. At full term, she could go off and have the baby, then give it to a Christian family to raise—a practice for which they were famous. The only downside to the plan was that some innocent servant would have to be framed, then probably be sentenced to crucifixion. Yet that was a small price to pay in times of need. More slaves could always be found.
“This plan could work,” Pantera said excitedly. “Slaves are notorious for being lusty. Pick someone to blame, buttercup, and I’ll make it happen.”
