circumstance never ceased to weigh upon the city's bishop. Back in the sixth century, armies dispatched from Constantinople had invaded Italy and restored to the empire its ancestral heartland. 'The ancient and lesser Rome' had been incorporated into the dominion of 'the later, more powerful city', 33 and her bishop had humbly acknowledged himself the subject of the far-off emperor. A Byzantine governor had moved into the city of Ravenna, on the Adriatic coast, administering as a province the emperor's conquests in northern Italy, the Eternal City included; Byzantine titles and gewgaws had been lavished upon the Roman aristocracy; Byzantine fashions had become all the rage. The bishop himself, every time he celebrated a Mass, would pray for his absent master in Constantinople. Every time he wrote a letter, he would date it by an emperor's regnal year.
And yet a sense of his own dignity never left him. Although excessive uppitiness might on occasion be punished by exile or threats of execution, the pre-eminence of Rome's bishop as 'the head of all Churches' was something that had been long and ringingly proclaimed by Byzantine law. 34 Despite his best efforts, not even the Patriarch of Constantinople, leader of the Church in the empire's very capital, had been able convincingly to rival it. Small wonder, then, that this authority should increasingly have tempted ambitious bishops in Rome to set themselves up as masters in their own city. They were, after all, at a gratifyingly distant remove from the emperor's actual person - and the same crisis that in the seventh century had inspired Methodius's prophecies of a last Roman emperor had served only to widen that remove. Greece had been infiltrated by savage barbarians from the North; the sea lanes preyed upon by corsairs; communications between Italy and Constantinople rendered perilous in the extreme. Byzantine officials in Rome, turning ever more native by the year, had fallen into the habit of obeying their bishop rather than the governor in Ravenna - and the bishop himself into the habit of issuing them with commands.
Perhaps a measure of imperiousness would have come naturally to any man who dwelt in a palace, the Lateran, that had originally been a grant from the Emperor Constantine, and who ruled as the effective master of the former mistress of the world. Early in the eighth century, indeed, plans were being drawn up - although never completed - to build him a second residence on the Palatine Hill: a site so associated with the age of the emperors that the very word 'palace' echoed it. Yet the bishops of Rome did not derive their authority merely from the legacy of the imperial past. Their patrimony was something infinitely more awesome - indeed, so they proudly asserted, the most awesome of all time. Christ Himself, in naming Peter as His rock, had given to him the keys of heaven, with the power of binding and loosing souls everywhere on earth - and Peter, before his martyrdom, had ruled as the very first bishop of Rome. 35 A trust more mystical and dreadful could hardly have been imagined. Peter's successors, proclaiming themselves the apostle's 'vicarii’, or 'deputies', had long since laid claim to it as their own. In Constantinople, where it was the emperor who believed himself entrusted by God with the leadership of the Church, this cut predictably little ice: by the early eighth century, doctrines were being laid down by imperial fiat in the teeth of howls of protest from Rome.
In the kingdoms of the West, however, lacking as they did the dazzling pretensions of an ancient Christian empire, men were far more inclined to be impressed by the spectacle of a bishop on the throne of the chief apostle. Indeed, to see him as the very essence of a bishop. 'Pappas' - that ancient Greek word for 'father' - was still, in the eighth century, being claimed as a title by bishops everywhere in the East; but in the West, Latinised to 'Papa', by the Bishop of
And yet a sense of his own dignity never left him. Although excessive uppitiness might on occasion be punished by exile or threats of execution, the pre-eminence of Rome's bishop as 'the head of all Churches' was something that had been long and ringingly proclaimed by Byzantine law. 34 Despite his best efforts, not even the Patriarch of Constantinople, leader of the Church in the empire's very capital, had been able convincingly to rival it. Small wonder, then, that this authority should increasingly have tempted ambitious bishops in Rome to set themselves up as masters in their own city. They were, after all, at a gratifyingly distant remove from the emperor's actual person - and the same crisis that in the seventh century had inspired Methodius's prophecies of a last Roman emperor had served only to widen that remove. Greece had been infiltrated by savage barbarians from the North; the sea lanes preyed upon by corsairs; communications between Italy and Constantinople rendered perilous in the extreme. Byzantine officials in Rome, turning ever more native by the year, had fallen into the habit of obeying their bishop rather than the governor in Ravenna - and the bishop himself into the habit of issuing them with commands.
Perhaps a measure of imperiousness would have come naturally to any man who dwelt in a palace, the Lateran, that had originally been a grant from the Emperor Constantine, and who ruled as the effective master of the former mistress of the world. Early in the eighth century, indeed, plans were being drawn up - although never completed - to build him a second residence on the Palatine Hill: a site so associated with the age of the emperors that the very word 'palace' echoed it. Yet the bishops of Rome did not derive their authority merely from the legacy of the imperial past. Their patrimony was something infinitely more awesome - indeed, so they proudly asserted, the most awesome of all time. Christ Himself, in naming Peter as His rock, had given to him the keys of heaven, with the power of binding and loosing souls everywhere on earth - and Peter, before his martyrdom, had ruled as the very first bishop of Rome. 35 A trust more mystical and dreadful could hardly have been imagined. Peter's successors, proclaiming themselves the apostle's 'vicarii’, or 'deputies', had long since laid claim to it as their own. In Constantinople, where it was the emperor who believed himself entrusted by God with the leadership of the Church, this cut predictably little ice: by the early eighth century, doctrines were being laid down by imperial fiat in the teeth of howls of protest from Rome.
In the kingdoms of the West, however, lacking as they did the dazzling pretensions of an ancient Christian empire, men were far more inclined to be impressed by the spectacle of a bishop on the throne of the chief apostle. Indeed, to see him as the very essence of a bishop. 'Pappas' - that ancient Greek word for 'father' - was still, in the eighth century, being claimed as a title by bishops everywhere in the East; but in the West, Latinised to 'Papa', by the Bishop of
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