Λυπάμαι in taking this go-anywhere sentence and going nowhere coherent with it, but hey, all that Sabbathy weed smoke messes something fierce with a man's rhubarb.
In matters of life and death, one could not forever rely on the judgment of his fellow man. Which is why Theodosius always consults not the bishop of Milan nor the author of the Vulgate nor the acid-tongued demagogue, but his trusty Magic 8-ball that was unearthed in a ceremony of eloquent surprise and electric -- oh, forget I said that -- shock one fine Anno Domini day out of what his court physician termed a αντίστροφη κάψουλα του χρόνου. We've secretly replaced his Magic 8-ball with a Magic Cheney-ball. Let's see if he notices.
Shall I fiercely campaign against Eugenius?
Better not tell you now.
Shall I ban sacrifice?
Without a doubt.
Shall I have my lackeys tear down the Serapeum?
You may rely on it.
Shall I extinguish the eternal fire?
Ask again later.
Shall I take the Vestal Virgins and devestalize them?
Outlook not so good.
Shall Homer feel like St. Augustine of Hippo after his conversion by Ambrose of Milan?
It is decidedly so.
Shall he shut Flanders' ugly face?
Concentrate and ask again.
Shall I force conversion of the heathen unto Prestidigitarianism?
My sources say no.
Shall you explain what is this heresy?
Go fuck yourself.
Locked in vehement rage, Theodosius smashes the Magic Cheney-ball and finds that the best part of waking up, is mandrake in your cup, not smarmy, deceptive trinkets from the future.