‘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 from 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.