Justinian

plague having spent itself, the now fully recovered emperor looked forward with relish to confronting the challenge (thus far unresolved) of bridging the gulf between the rival creeds of Chalcedonian Orthodoxy and Monophysitism.

In his mind, Justinian reviewed the field of battle as it looked at present. The successful machinations of Theodora and Antonina had secured the throne of Peter for Vigilius, a Monophysite sympathiser,† thus ‘planting’ a potentially heretical pontiff in the ultra-Chalcedonian West! In the East, apart from Constantinople (where the Patriarch, Menas, was staunchly Chalcedonian), much of the Empire, especially the wealthy and important dioceses of Egypt and Oriens, the latter comprising Syria and Palestine, were passionately Monophysite. To an emperor more cynical and less idealistic than Justinian (a man, say, of Khusro’s stamp), this potentially schismatic situation might have been shrugged off — a tiresome but essentially unimportant dichotomy. But Justinian was no cynic, and he was nothing if not idealistic. If the situation were allowed to drift, the Empire, in his opinion, was in danger of splitting into two mutually irreconcilable camps. It was his duty, as both emperor and Christ’s vicegerent upon earth, to ensure this did not happen. To help him in his search for a solution, he sent for Theodore Ascidas, Metropolitan of Caesarea, an ambitious, worldly, and intelligent cleric, who loved nothing better than the cut-and- thrust of intellectual debate. .

‘You’re in a fix, Serenity,’ chuckled Ascidas, pouring himself a chaliceful of communion wine from the flagon on the altar. The two men were in Saint Irene’s in the capital, consecrated a dozen years before. ‘In Africa and Italy,’ went on the bishop, a well-fleshed individual with a pleasant, lived-in face, ‘- especially Italy, what with Totila making things hard for Belisarius, you can’t afford not to keep the Romans on side. Not if you hope to hold the West, once you’ve reconquered it — again. And to keep those West Romans on side, you’ve got to be seen to be the champion of Chalcedonian Orthodoxy. For which you absolutely have to have the support of the Roman Church establishment, an institution that has largely filled the power-vacuum created by the absence of a Western emperor. Let the Romans of the West suspect you for a moment of going soft on the Monophysites — ’ Ascidas took a swig from the jewelled, silver cup and beamed at the emperor. ‘Then your credibility’s gone. I trust I’m making myself clear, Serenity.’

‘Only too clear,’ confirmed Justinian glumly. ‘I hear what you say, Ascidas, but unfortunately I can’t afford to crack down too hard on the Monophysites. Not since this firebrand priest, Jacob Baradaeus, has stirred up the Monophysite majority in Egypt, Syria, and Asia Minor to defy the Chalcedonian hierarchy. Why, in Alexandria alone, demonstrations against Zoilus, the Orthodox Patriarch, forced the man to flee. And there’s not a thing I can do about it; not unless I want a revolution on my hands. And, to make my position even more invidious, this wretched Jacob has the backing of my wife.’ The emperor paced the nave distractedly, before sitting on the lowest tier of concentric stone benches that formed the nether portion of the church’s apse. ‘But I asked you here to help me find some answers,’ he went on, with a reproachful glance at Ascidas, ‘not just present me with a string of problems.’

‘Patience, Serenity. Diagnosis comes before the cure. What we must do is find some common ground on which both Chalcedonians and Monophysites can unite.’

‘Common ground?’ The emperor laughed bitterly. ‘Something I’ve been searching for since I put on the diadem. If you can find that for me, I’ll be forever in your debt.’

‘Think, Serenity,’ invited the bishop with a reassuring smile. ‘The Blues and Greens are even more divided than are Rome and Alexandria, yet once they did make common cause.’

‘You mean, during the Nika riots — against myself? Don’t bother to spare my feelings, will you?’

‘Apologies, Serenity — nothing personal intended. But you take my point. The most effective way of uniting opponents is to find a common enemy. Allow me therefore to explain the Ascidas Plan — something which could be fittingly entitled, “The Condemnation of the Three Chapters”. .’

In an auditorium of Rome’s Lateran Palace, hard by the Asinarian Gate,* Stephen, the Pope’s apocrisiarius or legate, a tall, commanding figure with a great eagle’s beak of a Roman nose, stood to address the mass of clergy he had hastily convoked. In his hand he held an Edict, just arrived from Constantinople.

‘His Holiness, Pope Vigilius, is unable to attend,’ announced the legate, ‘because he is en route to Constantinople, by invitation of the emperor.’ He glared sternly round the assembly. ‘The reason for the summons, I suspect, is so that Justinian can exert direct pressure on Vigilius to get him to agree to this.’ Angrily, Stephen waved the Edict in the air. ‘This is the emperor’s latest trick to force us to compromise with the Monophysites.’ He paused, then went on, his voice rising to a shout, ‘Well, he must imagine that we’re idiots, to think we’re going to fall for it! The content is: a condemnation of certain century-old writings — ‘Chapters’ he calls them — by Theodore of Mopsuestia, Theoderet of Cyrus, and Ibas of Edessa.’

‘The significance of which is — what exactly?’ enquired a puzzled-looking deacon.

‘The three writers were all Nestorians,’ replied Stephen. ‘For the benefit of those of you whose knowledge of ancient ecclesiastical history may be sketchy, I shall endeavour to explain. Back in the time of Emperor Theodosius the Second, one Nestorius, a Patriarch of Constantinople, propounded the doctrine that Christ was essentially a man, but a man onto whom God grafted a divine nature, making Him a single entity you could call a God-man. After the Council of Chalcedon, such a doctrine was naturally obnoxious both to Chalcedonians for whom Christ has two natures, human and divine, and also to the Monophysites, who believe that Christ has only one, divine, nature.’

‘So, if I’ve understood you aright, Apocrisiarius,’ put in a presbyter in tones half- disbelieving, half-exasperated, ‘in condemning the writings of these three disciples of Nestorius, who was anathema to Chalcedonians and Monophysites alike, Justinian’s hoping to curry favour with both sects. How? By reheating a forgotten controversy from the past, on which, at the time, they both happened to share the same view. Surely that does absolutely nothing to resolve the fundamental differences between the two creeds? This Edict seems to me just a crude attempt to paint over the cracks.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ concurred Stephen warmly.

‘This is classic Justinian,’ fumed a bishop. ‘All smoke and mirrors, designed to obfuscate what he’s really trying to do — make concessions to a foul Egyptian heresy. Well, I for one refuse to subscribe to such a shabby ruse.’

‘And I!. . And I!. .’ An angry chorus of agreement erupted throughout the chamber.

‘Who the hell does Justinian think he is, laying down the law on matters of theology?’ shouted a fiery-eyed lector. ‘That’s for the Pope and the Patriarch of Constantinople to decide. This whole charade’s a blatant con, designed to fob us off!’

Which pretty well summed up the mood of the assembly, and, when news of the Edict reached the streets, of Rome itself, eventually of all of Italy and Africa. Within a few weeks, the Condemnation of the Three Chapters had become, so far as the West was concerned, as dead a letter as the Laws of Hammurabi, the Edict viewed as a Trojan Horse to sneak in concord with Monophysitism by the back door.

In the East, the Edict was received with scarcely more enthusiasm than in the West. What the Monophysite clergy (now in the ascendant, thanks to the evangelizing clout of Jacob Baradaeus) wanted, was not the condemnation of Nestorius but the creed of Chalcedon itself. However, made subject, by Geography, to direct pressure from Justinian and Menas, the strongly Chalcedonian Patriarch of Constantinople, most of them reluctantly gave their assent to the imperial decree — a surrender which, in Menas’ case, resulted in his excommunication by a furious and disgusted Stephen.*

Arriving in Constantinople,** Vigilius was welcomed at the harbour by Justinian himself. Treated with respect and cordiality as an honoured and distinguished guest, the Pontiff nonetheless soon found himself under pressure (relentless though courteously applied) from his imperial host — and in a quandary. Vigilius, a covert Monophysite, owed his election as Pope to the machinations of Theodora who, as a quid pro quo, expected him to promote the Monophysite cause in the West: a virtually impossible commission, considering the loathing in which the staunchly Chalcedonian West Romans held the eastern creed. An arch-trimmer and survivalist, Vigilius, however, had brought off a tricky balancing act. Keeping his Monophysite sympathies to himself, he had avoided offending the Western clergy, while at the same time keeping Theodora at bay with endless excuses regarding the delay in proselytizing on behalf of Monophysitism.

But now, a virtual prisoner in the eastern capital with both emperor and empress holding him to account, the wily Pope could vacillate no longer. Yielding to the inevitable, Vigilius handed to Justinian and Theodora* a signed statement declaring his condemnation of the Three Chapters. Fully aware that if this became public knowledge in