December 476 to May 477 AD
Six months that split Italy in two.
There are divisions that occur with a loud bang. War, earthquakes, revolutions. There are also divisions that occur with a whisper. Letters sent in the night. Secret meetings in monasteries far from prying eyes. Gold changing hands under the table. The second type of division is always more dangerous, because by the time people realize it, the crack is already too deep to be sewn shut.
What happened in the winter of 476 and the spring of 477 was a division of the second kind. And the name of the man who whispered that crack into the ear of Italy was Theodore.
Theodore left Rome three days after the Synod ended.
He did not wait for the closing ceremony. He did not wait for the Pope's blessing. He did not wait for anything. He rode out of the gates of Rome when the dawn had not yet fully illuminated the sky, with a carriage drawn by four black horses and an entourage of twelve priests whose faces were as hard as their master's.
Inside his swaying carriage on the cobblestone streets of the Via Flaminia, Theodore sat with his hands folded in his lap and eyes staring straight ahead without seeing the scenery passing outside the window. His mind had left Rome long before his body did.
The Synod had failed.
It did not fail officially. Officially, the Synod had produced a decision. Romulus was not excommunicated. Ignis Dei was declared not to be magic. Gelasius was sent to Ravenna as an investigator. All of that was recorded on parchment with a lead seal and the signatures of forty bishops.
But Theodore knew the truth behind that parchment.
He knew that the Synod's decision was not a victory for the truth. It was the victory of a young deacon named Paulus who was crazy enough to light Greek fire inside Saint Peter's Basilica. It was a victory of rhetoric over substance. It was a victory of fear over justice. The bishops did not acquit Romulus because they believed he was innocent. They acquitted him because they were afraid of the green fire blazing in the basin of seawater at the altar of Saint Peter.
And the Pope, Theodore thought as his carriage turned north leaving the Via Flaminia for the route leading to Milan, that old Pope let it all happen. He sat on his throne with trembling hands and a silenced mouth and let the children of Ravenna play around with the authority he should have protected with all the power of his office.
Theodore was not a man who accepted defeat. Theodore was a man who turned defeat into fuel.
Before he left Rome, when a commotion nearly broke out in Saint Peter's Basilica after the Pope delivered the decision that did not excommunicate Romulus, Theodore stood in the ranks of the bishops and shouted. It was not an uncontrolled shout. It was a shout measured with the precision of an orator who knew exactly how to ignite a crowd without looking like he was igniting it.
"Is this the justice of the Throne of Peter?" he shouted in the already roaring basilica. "Do we let a child play with demonic fire and tell him to keep playing, boy, the Church blesses you?"
A riot nearly occurred. The bishops who supported Theodore rose from their seats. The bishops who supported the Pope's decision shouted back. The guards of the Basilica drew their swords. Gelasius, with extraordinary calmness, sent twelve deacons to form a human barricade between the two opposing factions.
Pope Simplicius, from his high throne, raised his trembling hand and spoke with a voice almost consumed by age;
"Enough. The decision has been made. Whoever rejects this decision rejects the authority of the Throne of Peter. And whoever rejects the authority of the Throne of Peter rejects Christ Himself."
Those words muffled the commotion. Not because of their strength. But because of their theological weight. Rejecting the Pope meant schism. And schism, in the year 476, was still a word that made even the most ambitious bishop think twice.
Theodore thought twice. Then he thought three times. And on the fourth thought, as his carriage left Rome and headed north, he decided that schism was no longer a word that frightened him. Schism was the word that would bring him to power.
The Council of Milan took place in the third week of January 477, one month after Theodore returned from Rome.
One month that Theodore spent not praying or reflecting or seeking God's guidance. One month spent writing letters. Dozens of letters. To every bishop in northern Italy who had ever complained about Rome's dominance. To every priest who felt his career was hindered by Vatican politics. To every local noble who paid church taxes reluctantly and felt that their money was better off staying in the north rather than flowing south to enrich Rome.
And of course, the most important letter; the letter to Julius Nepos in Salona.
The contents of that letter were never found in full by any historian. But from the remaining fragments and from the testimonies collected decades later, the general picture can be reconstructed. Theodore offered Nepos something that had never been offered by anyone since he was exiled from Italy; spiritual legitimacy. Not just political recognition from a few senators who could be bought. Not just military support from mercenaries whose loyalty could change with the direction of the wind. But the blessing of God. A coronation by a church authority claiming to be equal to Rome.
Nepos accepted without thinking twice.
Thus on January 19, 477, in the magnificent Cathedral of Milan, thirty-two bishops from all over northern Italy gathered in what they called the Concilium Mediolanense. The Council of Milan.
Theodore led it from the pulpit usually reserved only for Easter and Christmas sermons, wearing a golden archbishop's robe newly made specifically for this event, with a jewel-encrusted mitre that was said to be bought with Nepos's gold.
The proceedings lasted two days. On the first day, Theodore presented his case. He spoke for four hours without a pause, his strong and controlled voice filling the entire cathedral with arguments built on a theological foundation that, if you did not look too closely, appeared very solid.
Pope Simplicius, he argued, had failed to carry out his duties as the Defender of the Faith. He allowed a child practicing dangerous alchemy to sit on the throne of Italy without consequence. He sent an archdeacon as an investigator, not an inquisitor, showing that he had no serious intention of taking action. And most importantly, he allowed a demonstration of green fire to happen inside Saint Peter's Basilica itself, defiling the holiest place in the Christian world with a substance whose origins had not been proven to be free from darkness.
"If the Pope cannot protect his own altar from demonic fire," Theodore said at the climax of his speech, his voice echoing off the high cathedral walls, "then how can he protect the souls of his flock?"
On the second day, thirty-two bishops signed a document that would shake the Christian world.
Declaratio Mediolanensis.
The Declaration of Milan.
Its contents were brief and devastating.
First; Pope Simplicius was declared to have fallen into grave error, and his spiritual authority was no longer recognized by the signing churches.
Second; The Archbishopric of Milan declared itself a legitimate apostolic see, independent of Rome.
Third; all the signing bishops recognized Julius Nepos as the sole legitimate Roman Emperor over Italy and requested his presence in Milan for a formal coronation.
Italy was split in two.
Not on the battlefield. Not with swords. With ink and parchment and wax seals.
Nepos arrived in Milan in early February, two weeks after the Declaration of Milan was signed.
He came not with the small force of an exiled king. He came with ten thousand soldiers gathered over months from Dalmatia, from Gallic mercenaries bought with Constantinopolitan gold, and from northern Italian volunteers who saw opportunity in the chaos. Ten thousand men marching through the gates of Milan with banners flying the imperial eagle as if Nepos had never lost the throne, as if the last seven months were merely a long vacation that had now ended.
The coronation took place in the same Cathedral of Milan where the Council was held. Theodore himself placed the diadem on Nepos's head, reciting the coronation prayer in perfect Latin and a voice that trembled not from weakness but from a long-awaited victory.
"By the authority given by God Almighty through the Apostolic See of Milan," Theodore said, his hands wrapped in white silk gloves placing the golden circle on the kneeling Nepos's head, "I crown Julius Nepos as Imperator Romanum, the legitimate Emperor of Rome, the sole holder of authority over all of Italy and its provinces."
Nepos stood. The diadem on his head gleamed under the light of hundreds of cathedral candles. Around him, thirty-two bishops and ten thousand soldiers and thousands of Milanese citizens who came to watch cheered with an enthusiasm that was partly genuine and partly paid for.
For the first time since he was exiled from Rome more than a year ago, Julius Nepos felt like an emperor.
He did not realize, Aelius Tacitus wrote five hundred years later, that a crown given by a bishop who had separated from Rome was no more valuable than a crown made of dry leaves. Beautiful to look at. Unable to last past its first season.
The news of the Declaration of Milan and Nepos's coronation reached Rome in mid-February.
The courier who brought it walked into the Lateran Palace with parchment that still smelled of fresh ink and a face showing that he had read its contents and wished he was illiterate. Pope Simplicius received the parchment in his private chambers. He read it alone. Then he sat in his chair for an hour without moving, staring at the wall with eyes that seemed to see something other than a wall.
The Church had split.
Not a minor schism. Not a theological dispute that could be resolved with one council and a few diplomatic compromises. This was an institutional division. North against South. Milan against Rome. Archbishop against Pope. And behind those church robes, two emperors who each claimed sole legitimacy over the exact same Italy.
Felix was the first to react.
The Roman bishop entered the Pope's chamber without knocking, his face red from a mixture of anger and urgency, his usually measured steps now rushed and impatient.
"Your Holiness must act," Felix said without preamble. "Now. Today. Before Theodore expands his influence further north. Excommunication. Against Theodore personally. Against every bishop who signed the Declaration of Milan. Against Nepos who accepted a coronation from the hands of rebels."
Simplicius looked at Felix with exhausted eyes. Eyes that had seen too many crises and too few solutions in a life that had been too long.
"And after the excommunication?" Simplicius asked. His voice was as soft as paper blown by the wind. "What happens after I hurl lightning from this throne? Will Theodore kneel and beg for mercy? Will thirty-two bishops tear their signatures from that parchment? Will Nepos's ten thousand soldiers return to their respective homes?"
"At least it shows that Rome is not weak," Felix said loudly.
"Or it shows that Rome is panicking," Simplicius replied. "A hastily delivered excommunication looks like panic, not authority. And Theodore will use it for precisely that. He will tell the world; look, the Pope excommunicated us because we dared to ask. We asked if the boy who burned the sea was worthy of being emperor, and Rome's answer was a curse." Simplicius shook his head slowly. "No. I will not play Theodore's game. Not his way."
"Then in what way, Your Holiness?" Felix pressed, his frustration becoming clearer with every word. "With prayer? With patience? While Theodore consolidates his power in the north and Nepos builds a larger army every week?"
Simplicius did not answer. He stared at the parchment of the Declaration of Milan lying on his desk like a dead snake that still held its venom.
"Write a letter to Gelasius in Ravenna," Simplicius finally said. "Tell him; protect Romulus. Make sure the boy does nothing rash. And ensure that Vitus does not march the army anywhere without my explicit consent."
"Is that all?"
"For now, that is all."
Felix stood from his chair with a movement showing a dissatisfaction he made no attempt to hide. He bowed briefly to the Pope and walked out, his steps loud on the marble floor, every tap of his shoes sounding like an unspoken argument.
In his silent chamber, Simplicius closed his eyes. Behind his thin and vein-filled eyelids, the shadow of an old dream reappeared. Two tables. Two clays. A voice saying; give it form.
But what form, Lord? Simplicius thought. I have shaped that clay. I sent Gelasius. I protected the boy from excommunication. I did everything You asked. And now Your church is split in two and I am too old to sew it back together.
News of the Declaration of Milan and Nepos's coronation reached Ravenna in late February, brought by an exhausted horseback courier and a horse that nearly collapsed.
The reaction in the palace could be mapped out in three words; Vitus wanted war.
The Magister Militum had been waiting for this moment since the night he burned Nepos's fleet in the Adriatic. He knew that peace would not last. He knew that Nepos would not accept his defeat. And now, with proof in hand that Nepos had built a new army and received a coronation from a rebel church, Vitus finally had a casus belli that could not be ignored.
"This is a holy war," Vitus said in the Strategy Hall, his index finger stabbing the map of Italy at the spot labeled MILAN like a sword seeking the enemy's heart. "Theodore separated himself from Rome. Nepos was crowned by a heretical bishop. Their entire legitimacy is built upon rebellion against the Throne of Peter. If we attack now, we don't attack as soldiers. We attack as defenders of the faith."
Spurius stood in the corner of the room, arms folded, forehead wrinkled.
"Holy war," Spurius repeated with a tone that squeezed every drop of grandeur from the phrase and left only its dry bones. "We call it a holy war because it sounds better than civil war. But those who die in both types of wars are equally human, Vitus."
"Humans who betrayed the legitimate emperor and Church."
"Humans who believe they are defending the legitimate emperor and Church. That is the problem. Both sides believe they are right. And you cannot kill a belief with a sword."
Romulus sat in his chair listening to the two men argue with an expression that became increasingly difficult to read as the weeks passed. The boy who used to swing his legs when nervous now sat still, his hands folded on the table, his eyes moving from Vitus to Spurius and back with measured movements.
Gelasius, who sat in the corner of the room with parchment and pen, wrote while listening. He had received the letter from the Pope; protect Romulus, make sure nothing rash happens. Instructions that were easy to write and very difficult to execute, because the palace of Ravenna in these months felt like a furnace heated from all sides.
"What does the Pope say?" Romulus asked, turning to Gelasius.
"His Holiness the Pope desires peace," Gelasius answered. "He believes that time will weaken Theodore's position. That the northern bishops who signed the Declaration will slowly realize that they have bet on the wrong horse. And that if we attack now, we only strengthen Theodore's argument that Rome and Ravenna are the aggressors."
"Time?" Vitus exploded. "The Pope talks about time while Nepos increases his army every week! Our spies in the north report that the Milan garrison has already reached twelve thousand. Twelve thousand! Plus the bishops inciting the people of the north. Plus the money from Constantinople that keeps flowing. Every day we waste waiting is a day Nepos uses to become stronger."
"And every day we attack," replied Gelasius with a calmness that increasingly raised Vitus's blood pressure, "is a day we prove that Romulus is a tyrant who cannot accept opposition. Theodore will spread the propaganda that the magic boy of Ravenna is not satisfied enough with burning the sea and is now burning the churches of God."
Vitus slammed his fist onto the table. The wooden pieces on the map wobbled and some fell.
"So we just sit? Wait? Until when?"
All eyes turned to Romulus.
The boy sat in his chair. This time he did not glance at Spurius to ask for help. He did not turn to Gelasius to ask for guidance. He stared at the map of Italy spread across the table, with the pieces now divided into two camps; red pieces in the north for Nepos, blue pieces in the south for himself.
"We wait," said Romulus. His voice was soft but unhesitating. "Not because I am afraid of war. But because I don't want to be the one to ignite the first fire. Let them ignite it. Let history record that Nepos and Theodore destroyed the peace, not us."
"And if they attack first?" demanded Vitus.
"Then we already have an undeniable reason to destroy them."
Vitus opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Then he closed it for the last time and sat back in his chair with a movement showing that he disagreed, was dissatisfied, and would not stop trying to change this decision at every available opportunity.
But for now, he obeyed.
What followed that decision was the most tense six months in the history of Italy since the fall of the Republic. Six months where two emperors ruled the same land without fighting openly but without making true peace. Six months where every day brought the possibility that someone would draw the first sword and turn the tension into bloodshed.
I, Aelius Tacitus, have studied this period with an exactness that makes my eyes sting and my fingers cramp from turning too many pages of fragile archives. And from everything I have read, from all the letters and reports and journals and testimonies, I summarize it as follows;
Italy in the spring of 477 was a land split by an invisible line stretching from the western coast to the eastern coast, cutting the peninsula into two parts that both believed they were the legitimate half.
In the south, Rome and Ravenna. Pope Simplicius on his wavering throne, too old to act decisively but still alive enough to restrain the people around him from acting rashly. Romulus in his muddy palace, growing a little every day under the guidance of Gelasius but still too young to shake the world with his own voice. Vitus at his military headquarters, restless like a lion in a cage, counting troops and dreaming of a battle that was not allowed to happen.
In the north, Milan and Dalmatia. Theodore in his newly polished cathedral, building a rival church bureaucracy with impressive efficiency and with equally impressive hypocrisy. Nepos in his new palace, drunk on newly acquired legitimacy, gathering troops and planning an attack that for some reason he never executed, perhaps because even in that drunkenness he still remembered what happened to his fleet the last time.
And in between, on that invisible line dividing Italy, ordinary people lived their lives in constant anxiety. Merchants who did not know if it was safe to carry merchandise across the border between north and south. Farmers who heard rumors about armies marching through their fields and who hid to plant their wheat while praying that no iron boots would trample their crops. Minor priests in village churches who did not know if they should pray for the Pope in Rome or the Archbishop in Milan, and who ended up praying for both secretly and hoping God did not pay too much attention to the contradiction.
In March, the tension nearly exploded.
The first incident occurred in Bononia, a city located right on the borderline between the territory recognizing Rome and the territory recognizing Milan. A group of Nepos's soldiers patrolling too far south encountered a Roman patrol on a small bridge outside the city. An exchange of words. An exchange of spit. An exchange of blows. A Nepos soldier drew a sword. A Roman soldier fell with a wound to the shoulder.
The news reached Ravenna and Milan simultaneously. In both cities, the reaction was quite identical; anger. Demands for retaliation. Cries for war. Vitus deployed two thousand soldiers to the border and prepared to cross. Nepos sent three thousand in the same direction.
Six thousand armed men stood facing each other on the banks of a small river that had no important name, staring at each other across the shallow and muddy water, hands on the hilts of their swords, breaths heavy.
Letters flew between Rome and Ravenna at a speed no less than that of running soldiers. Gelasius wrote three letters in a single day. Pope Simplicius sent a short and firm message; Romulus must restrain himself. Whatever happens. Whatever provocation comes. Hold back.
Romulus restrained himself.
Not because he was not angry. He was angry. His soldiers were attacked on a bridge in the land that should be his. But he listened to the voices he had gathered over the last few months; Gelasius's voice teaching patience, Spurius's voice teaching strategy, Gisela's voice teaching that the most dangerous wolf is the wolf that waits.
Vitus received the order to retreat with a face showing that there was a volcano waiting to erupt beneath his professional skin. But he retreated. Two thousand soldiers returned to their original positions.
Nepos, who also received pressure from Theodore not to start a war they were not ready to win, withdrew his forces.
That nameless small river fell silent once again. But everyone knew that the silence was only a pause, and not an end.
April and May passed in a constant and exhausting tension.
In Ravenna, Romulus lived his days with an increasingly structured routine. Morning; lessons with Gelasius. Noon; meetings with Vitus and Spurius about the military situation. Afternoon; training with Gisela. Night; reading in the library whose collection slowly grew because Gelasius sent requests to Rome to send new copies of classical texts.
He grew. Not only physically, although that also happened. His once thin and awkward body began to fill his tunic better, the muscles built by daily training with Gisela providing structure to his still youthful frame. But the more important growth occurred in a place that could not be seen. In the way he listened before speaking. In the way he asked before deciding. In the way he stared at the map of Italy on the table and saw not just lines and dots but the humans living behind the names of those cities.
Gisela became part of the palace in a way unwritten in any official document but felt by everyone. She had no title. Had no rank. She was simply there, present in the training yard every afternoon, present at the dining table occasionally, present in the palace corridors with steps that increasingly resembled a resident's stride rather than a prisoner's.
Gelasius observed the relationship between Romulus and Gisela with eyes that missed nothing and a mouth that commented on nothing. He wrote to the Pope about many things; about Romulus's intellectual growth, about his tension with Vitus, about the military situation at the border. About Gisela, he only wrote one sentence in every letter;
The relationship between the emperor and the barbarian woman continues to develop. I am watching.
Simplicius never replied to that sentence. Perhaps he trusted Gelasius's judgment. Perhaps he had bigger problems to think about. Or perhaps, in the depths of the soul of an old Pope who had once dreamed of clay and vessels and blood, he understood that there were things that could not be controlled by any throne, including the Throne of Peter.
The heart of a boy learning to love is one of them.
At the end of May 477, Italy stood at the edge of the abyss without realizing how thin the ground was beneath its feet.
In the north, Nepos ruled from Milan with the legitimacy granted by a rebel bishop and gold from Constantinople. His army grew. His confidence increased. He began to call himself not just the emperor of Italy but the sole legitimate heir to the Western Throne and sent letters to every city in the north demanding loyalty.
In the south, Romulus ruled from Ravenna with the legitimacy granted by an aging Pope and an increasingly sharp sword. His army was trained but fewer in number. His position was stronger morally but weaker militarily. And inside his palace, the tension between the general who wanted war and the emperor who refused to fight tightened like a bowstring drawn near its breaking point.
And between the two, on that invisible line dividing Italy, the same question hung in the air like a sword held by an unseen hand;
Who will draw the first sword?
The answer, when it finally arrived, would shock everyone. Because the first sword was not drawn by Nepos. Not by Theodore. The first sword was drawn by someone not on any map, in any calculation, in anyone's worst nightmare.
But that is a story for another chapter.
For now, Italy waited. And waiting, as I have written before, is a torture that leaves no scars on the skin but shatters the bones from within.