“Has there been any new word of the Visigoths?” asked Sopater in an attempt to change the subject. It was not terribly successful, since suspected communication with the barbarians had been one of the reasons given for executing Licinius. Constantine had defeated them in Thrace two years before, going into Licinius’s territory to do so and provoking the last civil war.
“Well, if they make any trouble, you can send Crispus to deal with them!” Fausta laughed a little too loudly. “Don’t they call him “Invictus”, the Unconquered?”
I felt a prickle of unease. During the war against Licinius, Crispus had been put in charge of the Aegean fleet and by defeating the enemy admiral, he had enabled Constantine to take Byzantium. Only last year the Emperor had struck a medallion showing Crispus and young Constantinus together, but since then Crispus had been transferred from Treveri to frontier duty in Dacia. Old Crocus was long dead, but his tribe had continued to send young warriors to serve as Caesar’s bodyguard. Perhaps that was what Fausta had been referring to, but there was something I did not quite like in her laugh.
“These bishops are too concerned with words,” said Constantine, pushing his plate away. I wondered if he really had not heard, or only pretended not to. “They forget the need for faith. Words divide, but the symbols of religion inspire the soul.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ossius.
“The pagans have shrines where they venerate the treasures that they believe were given by their gods. If we are to wean the people away from such delusions, we must offer them something to take their place. How can true believers walk in purity when every grove and crossroad is dedicated to a pagan god?”
“What would you have them worship instead?” asked Fausta.
“The places where our God has shown Himself to men. Why have we no basilica to honour Christ’s empty tomb?”
“Does anyone even know for certain where it is?” I asked.
“That is precisely the problem!” exclaimed the Emperor. “It is in my mind to send an expedition to excavate the site. Do you know what stands on the hill of Golgotha now?” he added indignantly, “A temple to Aphrodite the Whore!”
“Abomination!” exclaimed Ossius.
But surely, I thought, it was the place of execution that had been the abomination. I wondered what irony of fate had transformed it into a temple of the Lady of Love.
“Oh indeed,” muttered Fausta. “We all know that She has no power any more…”
In July the Council of Nicaea concluded with the creation of a creed to which everyone, even Arius, was willing to subscribe, respecting, if not the will of God, the wishes of their Emperor. At the beginning of the next year, Constantine, euphoric in the conviction that his leadership had brought the quarrelling Christians to a state of unity, moved his court to Rome to celebrate the twentieth year of his reign.
Our entry into the city was, if not a Triumph in the traditional sense, certainly triumphal. Every window was hung with white, and each archway garlanded with spring flowers. Slowly we made our way down the ancient route along the Via Triumphalis, between the pine-crowned Palatine and the Circus Maximus to the Caelian Hill, where we turned towards the Flavian Amphitheatre and the arch that Constantine had set up twenty years before. There the procession paused to allow a delegation of youths and maidens to present a panegyric and song.
Following the procession of senators and a group of flute players came several cohorts of crack troops from various parts of the Empire. The first of the imperial family to appear was Fausta, enthroned with her younger children on a low cart which had been fashioned into a representation of the Empire, bound with a banner proclaiming her the health and hope of the republic, the legend that had appeared on the coin that bore her image the year before. Her eldest son Constantinus, now ten years old, followed on a white pony.
Next was a float depicting the battle of the Hellespont in which the fleet led by Crispus had destroyed the much larger force belonging to Licinius. It was quite effective, I thought, with model ships poised on a silver sea. Crispus himself came after, resplendent as Apollo in full armour, mounted on a flighty Iberian mare who danced and tossed her head at each new wave of cheering.