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
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.
‘. . and in conclusion,’ said the convener, ‘having heard and carefully weighed the arguments put forward by the disputing parties, and taken into consideration the preponderating view, I shall announce the findings of the Commission, which are as follows.’ He glanced around the assembled delegates: those supporting Leo looked eager and excited, the ones favouring Dioscorus sullen and subdued.
‘That Christ is both human and divine as stated in the sacred
‘Accordingly, the doctrine that Christ has one nature only, that of God, is hereby declared to be anathema, and we decree that anyone subscribing to this doctrine be deemed a heretic.
‘In consequence whereof, the verdict of the Council of Ephesus, vindicating the Monophysite teaching of Eutyches is hereby declared null and void.
‘And moreover we decree that Dioscorus and those bishops of Egypt who supported him at Ephesus be now condemned, but that the rest, by reason that we think them more led astray than that they consented with a ready mind, be pardoned, provided they submit.
‘And now, with gracious thanks to Their Serenities Marcian and Valentinian, joint Augusti of our One and Indivisible Empire, to Leo, Monarchical Bishop of Rome, and to Flavian, Patriarch of Constantinople, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I declare this Council closed.’
As the convener finished speaking, a susurration, like leaves in the wind, arose from the assembly, mingled with gasps and cries of astonishment. All over the church, delegates rose to their feet, pointing to the body of the saint in its coffin. Incredibly, but indisputably, a stick-like arm was rising in the air; it reached the vertical, then flopped on to the mummy’s chest, its talons clutching at
‘A miracle?’ said Marcian, angrily pacing the atrium of the villa in ‘the Oak’, Chalcedon’s most exclusive suburb. He had been assigned the sumptuous residence during the sitting of the Council, for ease in monitoring its progress. ‘This is the last thing we need, Aspar. Now the findings of the Council are going to have all the credibility of a fairground trick. The credulous fools. A corpse’s hand rising to clasp the
‘I’m as puzzled as you are, sir,’ responded the general. ‘But they all swear they saw it — those who weren’t dozing at the back, that is. I don’t think we can just dismiss it, sir. Both John of Antioch and our own Flavian have confirmed they saw it happen, and a more hard-headed pair of pragmatists would be difficult to find.’
‘Then it must be a trick,’ fumed Marcian. ‘We’ve all heard of phials of saints’ “blood” which liquefy on certain days, or statues of the Virgin which supposedly weep real tears on Good Friday. It’s got to be something on those lines, or. . Perhaps the warmer temperature in the nave, compared to that in the crypt whence the body was removed, made arm muscles contract. For God’s sake Aspar, don’t look at me like that — I know it sounds far- fetched. But a miracle? No, that I can’t accept.’
‘Why don’t we examine the lady for ourselves,’ suggested the general soothingly.
‘Good idea. Lead the way.’
‘No signs of interference, sir,’ pronounced Aspar, rising to his feet beside the coffin.
‘I have to agree,’ said Marcian reluctantly, dusting down his knees. ‘This bending isn’t good for my arthritis, you know,’ he grumbled; then abruptly, pointing down at the coffin’s head. ‘Hallo, what’s this?’
‘Just a blob of candle-grease,’ said Aspar, stooping to examine it.
Ignoring the stiffness in his knees, Marcian bent down to have a closer look. ‘There’s a mark here,’ he observed suspiciously. ‘Look,’ and he indicated a faint groove on the surface of the wax. ‘Something funny here, Aspar.’
‘You know, sir,’ said the general innocently, ‘I wonder if it might not be a mistake to be
‘Aspar, I can’t believe I heard you say that,’ said Marcian indignantly. ‘Not for a moment would I countenance such-’ He stopped, shook his head, then burst out laughing. ‘Well, perhaps you’re right. Sleeping dogs, eh? You old reprobate, there are times when I despair of you.’
1 Re the retention of pliability in some mummies’ limbs, see Notes p.439.
FIFTY-ONE
The sudden bursting of an artery flooded his lungs with a torrent of blood
Fear gripped Attila as he awoke. He could not move. Every muscle was immobile, as though his whole body were clamped by bands of iron. He willed his flesh to respond; slowly, slowly, beginning with his hands and feet, the power of movement returned until he was able, painfully and stiffly, to rise from his couch. The condition, brought on by over-taxed muscles reacting after a long and punishing lifetime in the saddle, had begun some years ago and had gradually worsened, until now he dreaded retiring each night in case the morning found him alive but paralysed.
