------------------------------------------------------------------------

                          Transcriber’s Note:

This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_.

Footnotes have been moved to follow the paragraphs in which they are
referenced.

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding
the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Heroes of the Nations

        EDITED BY

  =H. W. Carless Davis, M.A.=
FELLOW OF BALLIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD



                                           FACTA DUCIS VIVENT OPEROSAQUE
                                    GLORIA RERUM.—OVID, IN LIVIAM, 265.

                                      THE HERO’S DEEDS AND HARD-WON
                                    FAME SHALL LIVE.








                              CONSTANTINE




[Illustration:

  CONSTANTINE THE GREAT.
  FROM THE BRITISH MUSEUM PRINT ROOM.      _Frontispiece._
]

                              CONSTANTINE
                               THE GREAT

                  THE REORGANISATION OF THE EMPIRE AND
                       THE TRIUMPH OF THE CHURCH








                                   BY

                             JOHN B. FIRTH

             (SOMETIME SCHOLAR OF QUEEN’S COLLEGE, OXFORD)

  AUTHOR OF “AUGUSTUS CÆSAR,” “A TRANSLATION OF PLINY’S LETTERS,” ETC.




                                  ---




                          G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

NEW YORK
27 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET

LONDON
24 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND


                    =The Knickerbocker Press=

                                  1905

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                            COPYRIGHT, 1904

                                   BY

                          G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

                               ----------

                        Published, January, 1905








               =The Knickerbocker Press, New York=

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration]

                                PREFACE


In the following chapters, my object has been to tell the story of the
Life and Times of Constantine the Great. Whether he deserves the epithet
my readers will judge for themselves; certainly his place in the select
list of the immortals is not among the highest. But whether he himself
was “great” or not, under his auspices one of the most momentous changes
in the history of the world was accomplished, and it is the first
conversion of a Roman Emperor to Christianity, with all that such
conversion entailed, which makes his period so important and so well
worth studying.

I have tried to write with impartiality—a virtue which one admires the
more after a close reading of original authorities who, practically
without exception, were bitter and malevolent partisans. The truth,
therefore, is not always easily recognised, nor has recognition been
made the easier by the polemical writers of succeeding centuries who
have dealt with that side of Constantine’s career which belongs more
particularly to ecclesiastical history. In narrating the course of the
Arian Controversy and the proceedings of the Council of Nicæa I have
been content to record facts—as I have seen them—and to explain the
causes of quarrel rather than act as judge between the disputants. And
though in this branch of my subject I have consulted all the original
authorities who describe the growth of the controversy, I have not
deemed it necessary to read, still less to add to, the endless strife of
words to which the discussion of the theological and metaphysical issues
involved has given rise. On this point I am greatly indebted to, and
have made liberal use of, the admirable chapters in the late Canon
Bright’s _The Age of the Fathers_.

Other authorities, which have been most useful to me, are Boissier’s _La
Fin du Paganisme_, Allard’s _La Persécution de Dioclétien et le Triomphe
de l’Eglise_, Duruy’s _Histoire Romaine_, and Grosvenor’s
_Constantinople_.

                                                        J. B. FIRTH.

    LONDON, October, 1904.

[Illustration]

                                CONTENTS

                               CHAPTER I.

                                                                 PAGE

   THE EMPIRE UNDER DIOCLETIAN                                      1

                              CHAPTER II.

   THE PERSECUTION OF THE CHURCH                                   12

                              CHAPTER III.

   THE ABDICATION OF DIOCLETIAN AND THE SUCCESSION OF              39
     CONSTANTINE

                              CHAPTER IV.

   CONSTANTINE AND HIS COLLEAGUES                                  56

                               CHAPTER V.

   THE INVASION OF ITALY                                           73

                              CHAPTER VI.

   THE VISION OF THE CROSS AND THE EDICT OF MILAN                  92

                              CHAPTER VII.

   THE DOWNFALL OF LICINIUS                                       115

                             CHAPTER VIII.

   LAST DAYS OF PERSECUTION                                       134

                              CHAPTER IX.

   CONSTANTINE AND THE DONATISTS                                  159

                               CHAPTER X.

   THE ARIAN CONTROVERSY                                          189

                              CHAPTER XI.

   THE COUNCIL OF NICÆA                                           211

                              CHAPTER XII.

   THE MURDERS OF CRISPUS AND FAUSTA                              237

                             CHAPTER XIII.

   THE FOUNDATION OF CONSTANTINOPLE                               257

                              CHAPTER XIV.

   ARIUS AND ATHANASIUS                                           285

                              CHAPTER XV.

   CONSTANTINE’S DEATH AND CHARACTER                              301

                              CHAPTER XVI.

   THE EMPIRE AND CHRISTIANITY                                    330

   INDEX                                                          357

[Illustration]

                             ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                  PAGE

 CONSTANTINE THE GREAT                                  _Frontispiece_

         From the British Museum Print Room.

 BUST OF DIOCLETIAN                                                 22

 CONSTANTINE THE GREAT                                              40

         From Grosvenor’s _Constantinople_.

 THE GOLDEN GATE OF DIOCLETIAN’S PALACE AT SALONA                   60
   (SPALATO)

 BUST OF MAXIMIAN AT ROME                                           62

         Photograph by Alinari.

 FRAGMENT OF 4TH CENTURY EGYPTIAN POTTERY BOWL                      70

         Showing an early portrait of Christ, with
           busts of the Emperor Constantine and the
           Empress Fausta. From the British Museum.

 THE BATTLE OF THE MILVIAN BRIDGE, BY RAPHAEL                       86

         In the Vatican. Photograph by Alinari.

 THE ARCH OF CONSTANTINE AT ROME                                    90

         Photograph by Alinari.

 CONSTANTINE’S VISION OF THE CROSS, BY RAPHAEL                      94

         In the Vatican. Photograph by Alinari.

 THE WESTERN SIDE OF A PEDESTAL, SHOWING THE HOMAGE OF             126
   THE VANQUISHED GOTHS

         From Grosvenor’s _Constantinople_.

 THE AMPHITHEATRE AT ARLES                                         168

         Exterior view. Present day.

 THE AMPHITHEATRE AT ARLES AS IT APPEARED IN 1686                  172

         From an old print.

 STATUE OF CONSTANTINE FROM THE PORCH OF SAN GIOVANNI              188
   IN LATERAN, AT ROME

 GATE OF ST. ANDREW AT AUTUN                                       212

 “CONSTANTINE THE GREAT AND HIS MOTHER, ST. HELENA,                238
   HOLY, EQUAL TO THE APOSTLES”

         From a picture discovered 1845, in an old
           church of Mesembria. From Grosvenor’s
           _Constantinople_.

 THE DONATION OF CONSTANTINE                                       248

         From the painting by Raphael in the Vatican.
           Photograph by Alinari.

 ST. HELENA’S VISION OF THE CROSS                                  250

         By Paul Veronese. National Gallery, London.

 CHART OF THE EASTERN SECTION OF MEDIÆVAL                          258
   CONSTANTINOPLE

         From Grosvenor’s _Constantinople_.

 BAPTISTERY OF SAN GIOVANNI IN LATERAN, ROME                       262

         Photograph by Alinari.

 ST. HELENA AND THE CROSS                                          268

         By Cranach. Lichtenstein Gallery, Vienna.

 COLUMN OF CONSTANTINE THE GREAT                                   270

         From Grosvenor’s _Constantinople_.

 THE THREE EXISTING MONUMENTS OF THE HIPPODROME                    276

         From Grosvenor’s _Constantinople_.

 PLAN OF THE HIPPODROME                                            278

         From Grosvenor’s _Constantinople_.

 THE SERPENT OF DELPHI                                             280

         From Grosvenor’s _Constantinople_.

 ST. ATHANASIUS                                                    288

         From the British Museum Print Room.

 BASILICA OF CONSTANTINE AT ROME                                   302

         From _Rome of To-Day and Yesterday_, by John
           Dennie.

 THE SUPPOSED SARCOPHAGI OF CONSTANTINE THE GREAT AND              314
   THEODOSIUS THE GREAT

         From Grosvenor’s _Constantinople_.


                             LIST OF COINS

 COPPER DENARIUS OF CONSTANTINE THE GREAT, SHOWING THE             324
   LABARUM

 DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF CONSTANTIUS II., WITH THE LABARUM               324

 DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF DIOCLETIAN                                      324

 SOLIDUS OF MAXIMIAN                                               324

 AUREUS OF CARAUSIUS                                               332

 AUREUS OF ALLECTUS                                                332

 SOLIDUS OF HELENA                                                 332

 SOLIDUS OF GALERIUS                                               332

 SOLIDUS OF SEVERUS II.                                            332

 SOLIDUS OF MAXIMIN DAZA                                           340

 SOLIDUS OF LICINIUS I.                                            340

 SOLIDUS OF LICINIUS II.                                           340

 DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF CONSTANTINE THE GREAT                           340

 DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF CONSTANTINE THE GREAT                           348

 DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF FAUSTA                                          348

 DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF CRISPUS                                         348

 DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF CONSTANTIUS II. AS CÆSAR                        348

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                  CONSTANTIUS CHLORUS
                       m. (1) Helena
                          (2) Theodora (d. of Emperor Maximian)

(1) Constantius = Helena                      (2) Constantius = Theodora
                |                                             |
     Constantine the Great                                    |
           m. (1) Minervina                                   |
              (2) Fausta (d. of Emperor Maximian)             |
                                                              |
(1) Constantine = Minervina    (2) Constantine = Fausta       |
                |                              |              |
             Crispus                           |              |
         (killed in 326)                       |              |
                                               |              |
       +--------------+-------------+----------+--------+     |
       |              |             |          |        |     |
       |        Constantius II.     |     Constantina   |     |
  Constantine II.  (d. 361)      Constans            Helena   |
  (killed in 340)     |        (killed in 350)          m.    |
                  A daughter                         Julian   |
                                                              |
       +---------+----------+---------------+---------+-------+
       |         |          |               |         |       |
    Constantine  |      Constantius         |         |       |
(killed in 337)  |     (killed, 337)        |     Anastasia   |
             Dalmatius  m. (1) Galla    Constantia    m.   Eutropia
           Annibalianus    (2) Basilina     m.    Bassianus   m.
                 |                |      Emperor   (Cæsar) Nepotianus
        +--------+------+         |     Licinius              |
        |               |         |                           |
    Dalmatius      Annibalianus   |    Licinianus    Flavius Popilius
  (Cæsar in 335; (King of Pontus; |  killed in 326)     Nepotianus
  killed in 337)  killed in 337)  |                   (killed in 390)
                                  |
          (1) Constantius = Galla     (2) Constantius = Basilina
                          |                           |
                 +--------+-------+                   |
                 |                |                   |
               A son,          Gallus               Julian
         (killed in 337)  (killed in 354)      (Emperor, 361)

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration]

                              Constantine


                               ----------




                               CHAPTER I
                      THE EMPIRE UNDER DIOCLETIAN


The catastrophe of the fall of Rome, with all that its fall signified to
the fifth century, came very near to accomplishment in the third. There
was a long period when it seemed as though nothing could save the
Empire. Her prestige sank to the vanishing point. Her armies had
forgotten what it was to win a victory over a foreign enemy. Her
Emperors were worthless and incapable. On every side the frontiers were
being pierced and the barriers were giving way.

The Franks swept over Gaul and laid it waste. They penetrated into
Spain; besieged Toledo; and, seizing the galleys which they found in the
Spanish ports, boldly crossed into Mauretanian Africa. Other
confederations of free barbarians from southern Germany had burst
through the wall of Hadrian which protected the Tithe Lands (_Decumates
agri_), and had followed the ancient route of invasion over the Alps.
Pannonia had been ravaged by the Sarmatæ and the Quadi. In successive
invasions the Goths had overrun Dacia; had poured round the Black Sea or
crossed it on shipboard; had sacked Trebizond and Chalcedon, and, after
traversing Bithynia, had reached the coast at Ephesus. Others had
advanced into Greece and Macedonia and challenged the Roman navies for
the possession of Crete.

Not only was Armenia lost, but the Parthians had passed the Euphrates,
vanquished and taken prisoner the Emperor Valerian, and surprised the
city of Antioch while the inhabitants were idly gathered in the theatre.
Valerian, chained and robed in purple, was kept alive to act as Sapor’s
footstool; when he died his skin was tanned and stuffed with straw and
set to grace a Parthian temple. Egypt was in the hands of a rebel who
had cut off the grain supply. And as if such misfortunes were not
enough, there was a succession of terrifying and destructive
earthquakes, which wrought their worst havoc in Asia, though they were
felt in Rome and Egypt. These too were followed by a pestilence which
raged for fifteen years and, according to Eutropius, claimed, when at
its height, as many as five thousand victims in a single day.

It looked, indeed, as though the Roman Empire were past praying for and
its destruction certain.[1] The armies were in wide-spread revolt. Rebel
usurpers succeeded one another so fast that the period came to be known
as that of the Thirty Tyrants, many of whom were elected, worshipped,
and murdered by their soldiers within the space of a few weeks or
months. “You little know, my friends,” said Saturninus, one of the more
candid of these phantom monarchs, when his troops a few years later
insisted that he should pit himself against Aurelian, “you little know
what a poor thing it is to be an Emperor. Swords hang over our necks; on
every side is the menace of spear and dart. We go in fear of our guards,
in terror of our household troops. We cannot eat what we like, fight
when we would, or take up arms for our pleasure. Moreover, whatever an
Emperor’s age, it is never what it should be. Is he a grey beard? Then
he is past his prime. Is he young? He has the mad recklessness of youth.
You insist on making me Emperor; you are dragging me to inevitable
death. But I have at least this consolation in dying, that I shall not
be able to die alone.”[2] In that celebrated speech, vibrating with
bitter irony, we have the middle of the third century in epitome.

-----

Footnote 1:

  _Jam desperatis rebus et deleto pæne imperio Romano_ (Eutropius, iv.,
  c. 9).

Footnote 2:

  _Nescitis, amici, quid mali sit imperare_ (Vopiscus, Saturninus, c.
  10).

-----

But then the usual miracle of good fortune intervened to save Rome from
herself. The Empire fell into the strong hands of Claudius, who in two
years smote the Goths by land and sea, and of Aurelian, who recovered
Britain and Gaul, restored the northern frontiers, and threw to the
ground the kingdom over which Zenobia ruled from Palmyra. The Empire was
thus restored once more by the genius of two Pannonian peasants, who had
found in the army a career open to talent. The murder of Aurelian, in
275, was followed by an interregnum of seven months, during which the
army seemed to repent of having slain its general and paid to the Senate
a deference which effectually turned the head—never strong—of that
assembly. Vopiscus quotes a letter written by one senator to another at
this period, begging him to return to Rome and tear himself away from
the amusements of Baiæ and Puteoli. “The Senate,” he says,[3] “has
returned to its ancient status. It is we who make Emperors; it is our
order which has the distribution of offices. Come back to the city and
the Senate House. Rome is flourishing; the whole State is flourishing.
We give Emperors; we make Princes; and we who have begun to create, can
also restrain.” The pleasant delusion was soon dispelled. The legions
speedily re-assumed the rôle of king-makers. Tacitus, the senatorial
nominee, ruled only for a year, and another series of soldier Emperors
succeeded. Probus, in six years of incessant fighting, repeated the
triumphs of Aurelian, and carried his successful arms east, west, and
north. Carus, despite his sixty years, crossed the Tigris and made
good—at any rate in part—his threat to render Persia as naked of trees
as his own bald head was bare of hairs. But Carus’s reign was brief, and
at his death the Empire was divided between his two sons, Carinus and
Numerian. The former was a voluptuary; the latter, a youth of retiring
and scholarly disposition, quite unfitted for a soldier’s life, was soon
slain by his Prætorian præfect, Arrius Aper. But the choice of the army
fell upon Diocletian, and he, after stabbing to the heart the man who
had cleared his way to the throne, gathered up into his strong hands the
reins of power in the autumn of 284. He met in battle the army of
Carinus at Margus, in Moesia, during the spring of 285. Carinus was
slain by his officers and Diocletian reigned alone.

-----

Footnote 3:

  Vopiscus, Florianus, c. 6.

-----

But he soon found that he needed a colleague to halve with him the
dangers and the responsibilities of empire. He, therefore, raised his
lieutenant, Maximian, to the purple, with the title of Cæsar, and a
twelvemonth later gave him the full name and honours of Augustus. There
were thus two armies, two sets of court officials, and two palaces, but
the edicts ran in the joint name of both Augusti. Then, when still
further division seemed advisable, the principle of imperial partnership
was extended, and it was decided that each Augustus should have a Cæsar
attached to him. Galerius was promoted to be the Cæsar of Diocletian;
Constantius to be the Cæsar of Maximian. Each married the daughter of
his patron, and looked forward to becoming Augustus as soon as his
superior should die. The plan was by no means perfect, but there was
much to be said in its favour. An Emperor like Diocletian, the nominee
of the eastern army alone and the son of a Dalmatian slave, had few, if
any, claims upon the natural loyalty of his subjects. Himself a
successful adventurer, he knew that other adventurers would rise to
challenge his position, if they could find an army to back them. By
entrusting Maximian with the sovereignty of the West, he forestalled
Maximian’s almost certain rivalry, and the four great frontiers each
required the presence of a powerful army and an able commander-in-chief.
By having three colleagues, each of whom might hope in time to become
the senior Augustus, Diocletian secured himself, so far as security was
possible, against military rebellion.

Unquestionably, too, this decentralisation tended towards general
efficiency. It was more than one man’s task, whatever his capacity, to
hold together the Empire as Diocletian found it. Gaul was ablaze from
end to end with a peasants’ war. Carausius ruled for eight years in
Britain, which he temporarily detached from the Empire, and, secure in
his naval strength, forced Diocletian and Maximian, much to their
disgust, to recognise him as a brother Augustus. This archpirate, as
they called him, was crushed at last, but whenever Constantius crossed
into Britain it was necessary for Maximian to move up to the vacant
frontier of the Rhine and mount guard in his place. We hear, too, of
Maximian fighting the Moors in Mauretania. War was thus incessant in the
West. In the East, Diocletian recovered Armenia for Roman influence in
287 by placing his nominee, Tiridates, on the throne. This was done
without a breach with Parthia, but in 296 Tiridates was expelled and war
ensued. Diocletian summoned Galerius from the Danube and entrusted him
with the command. But Galerius committed the same blunder which Crassus
had made three centuries and a half before. He led his troops into the
wastes of the Mesopotamian desert and suffered the inevitable disaster.
When he returned with the survivors of his army to Antioch, Diocletian,
it is said, rode forth to meet him; received him with cold displeasure;
and, instead of taking him up into his chariot, compelled him to march
alongside on foot, in spite of his purple robe. However, in the
following year, 297, Galerius faced the Parthian with a new army, took
the longer but less hazardous route through Armenia, and utterly
overwhelmed the enemy in a night attack. The victory was so complete
that Narses sued for peace, paying for the boon no less a price than the
whole of Mesopotamia and five provinces in the valley of the Tigris, and
renouncing all claim to the sovereignty of Armenia.

This was the greatest victory which Rome had won in the East since the
campaigns of Trajan and Vespasian. It was followed by fifty years of
profound peace; and the ancient feud between Rome and Parthia was not
renewed until the closing days of the reign of Constantine. Lactantius,
of whose credibility as a historian we shall speak later on, sneers at
the victory of Galerius, which he says was “easily won”[4] over an enemy
encumbered by baggage, and he represents him as being so elated with his
success that when Diocletian addressed him in a letter of congratulation
by the name of Cæsar, he exclaimed,[5] with glowing eyes and a voice of
thunder, “How long shall I be merely Cæsar?” But there is no word of
corroboration from any other source. On the contrary, we can see that
Diocletian, whose forte was diplomacy rather than generalship, was on
the best of terms with his son-in-law, Galerius, who regarded him not
with contempt, but with the most profound respect. Diocletian and
Galerius, for their lifetime at any rate, had settled the Eastern
question on a footing entirely satisfactory and honourable to Rome. A
long line of fortresses was established on the new frontier, within
which there was perfect security for trade and commerce, and the result
was a rapid recovery from the havoc caused by the Gothic and Parthian
irruptions.

-----

Footnote 4:

  _De Mort. Persec._, c. 9: _Non difficiliter oppressit._

Footnote 5:

  _Truci vultu ac voce terribili, Quousque tandem Cæsar?_

-----

Though Diocletian had divided the supreme power, he was still the moving
and controlling spirit, by whose nod all things were governed.[6] He had
chosen for his own special domain Asia, Syria, and Egypt, fixing his
capital at Nicomedia, which he had filled with stately palaces, temples,
and public buildings, for he indulged the dream of making his city the
rival of Rome. Galerius ruled the Danubian provinces with Greece and
Illyricum from his capital at Sirmium. Maximian, the Augustus of the
West, ruled over Italy, Africa, and Spain from Milan; Constantius
watched over Gaul and Britain, with headquarters at Treves and at York.
But everywhere the writ of Diocletian ran. He took the majestic name of
Jovius, while Maximian styled himself Herculius; and it stands as a
marvellous tribute to his commanding influence that we hear of no
friction between the four masters of the world.

-----

Footnote 6:

  _Cujus nutu omnia gubernabantur._

-----

Diocletian profoundly modified the character of the Roman Principate. He
orientalised it, adopting frankly and openly the symbols and
paraphernalia of royalty which had been so repugnant to the Roman
temper. Hitherto the Roman Emperors had been, first and foremost,
Imperators, heads of the army, soldiers in the purple. Diocletian became
a King, clad in sumptuous robes, stiff with embroidery and jewels.
Instead of approaching with the old military salute, those who came into
his presence bent the knee and prostrated themselves in adoration. The
monarch surrounded himself, not with military præfects, but with
chamberlains and court officials, the hierarchy of the palace, not of
the camp. We cannot wholly impute this change to vanity or to that
littleness of mind which is pleased with pomp and elaborate ceremonial.
Diocletian was too great a man to be swayed by paltry motives. It was
rather that his subjects had abdicated their old claim to be called a
free and sovereign people, and were ready to be slaves. The whole
senatorial order had been debarred by Gallienus from entering the army,
and had acquiesced without apparent protest in an edict which closed to
its members the profession of arms. Diocletian thought that his throne
would be safer by removing it from the ken of the outside world, by
screening it from vulgar approach, by deepening the mystery and
impressiveness attaching to palaces, by elaborating the court
ceremonial, and exalting even the simplest of domestic services into the
dignity of a liturgy. It may be that these changes intensified the
servility of the subject, and sapped still further the manhood and
self-respect of the race. Let it not be forgotten, however, that the
ceremonial of the modern courts of Europe may be traced directly back to
the changes introduced by Diocletian, and also that the ceremonial,
which the older school of Romans would have thought degrading and
effeminate, was, perhaps, calculated to impress by its stateliness,
beauty, and dignity the barbarous nations which were supplying the Roman
armies with troops.

We will reserve to a later chapter some account of the remodelled
administration, which Constantine for the most part accepted without
demur. Here we may briefly mention the decentralisation which Diocletian
carried out in the provinces. Lactantius[7] says that “he carved the
provinces up into little fragments that he might fill the earth with
terror,” and suggests that he multiplied officials in order to wring
more money out of his subjects. That is an enemy’s perversion of a wise
statesman’s plan for securing efficiency by lessening the administrative
areas, and bringing them within working limits. Diocletian split up the
Empire into twelve great dioceses. Each diocese again was subdivided
into provinces. There were fifty-seven of these when he came to the
throne; when he quitted it there were ninety-six. The system had grave
faults, for the principles on which the finances of the Empire rested
were thoroughly mischievous and unsound. But the reign of Diocletian was
one of rapid recuperation and great prosperity, such as the Roman world
had not enjoyed since the days of the Antonines.

-----

Footnote 7:

  _Et, ut omnia terrore complerentur, provinciæ quoque in frusta
  concisæ_ (_De Mort. Persec._, c. 7).

-----

[Illustration]


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER II
                     THE PERSECUTION OF THE CHURCH


Unfortunately for the fame of Diocletian there is one indelible blot
upon the record of his reign. He attached his name to the edicts whereby
was let loose upon the Christian Church the last and—in certain
provinces—the fiercest of the persecutions. Inasmuch as the affairs of
the Christian Church will demand so large a share of our attention in
dealing with the religious policy of Constantine, it will be well here
to describe, as briefly as possible, its condition in the reign of
Diocletian. It has been computed that towards the end of the third
century the population of the Roman Empire numbered about a hundred
millions. What proportion were Christians? No one can say with
certainty, but they were far more numerous in the East than in the West,
among the Greek-speaking peoples of Asia than among the Latin-speaking
peoples of Europe. Perhaps if we reckon them at a twelfth of the whole
we shall rather underestimate than overestimate their number, while in
certain portions of Asia and Syria they were probably at least one in
five. Christianity had spread with amazing rapidity since the days of
Domitian. There had been spasmodic outbreaks of fierce persecution under
Decius,—“that execrable beast,” as Lactantius calls him,—under Valerian,
and under Aurelian. But Aurelian’s reign was short and he had been too
busy fighting to spare much time for religious persecution. The tempest
quickly blew over. For fully half a century, with brief interludes of
terror, the Church had been gathering strength and boldness.

The policy of the State towards it was one of indifference. Gallienus,
indeed, the worthless son of Valerian, had issued edicts of toleration,
which might be considered cancelled by the later edicts of Aurelian or
might not. If the State wished to be savage, it could invoke the one
set; if to be mild, it could invoke the other. There was, therefore, no
absolute security for the Church, but the general feeling was one of
confidence. The army contained a large number of Christians, of all
ranks and conditions, officers, centurions, and private soldiers. Many
of the officials of the civil service were Christians. The court and the
palace were full of them. Diocletian’s wife, Prisca, was a Christian; so
was Valeria, his daughter. So, too, were many of his chamberlains,
secretaries, and eunuchs. If Christianity had been a proscribed
religion, if the Christians had anticipated another storm, is it
conceivable that they would have dared to erect at Nicomedia, within
full view of the palace windows, a large church situated upon an
eminence in the centre of the city, and evidently one of its most
conspicuous structures? No, Christianity in the East felt tolerably safe
and was advancing from strength to strength, conscious of its increasing
powers and of the benevolent neutrality of Diocletian. Christians who
took office were relieved from the necessity of offering incense or
presiding at the games. The State looked the other way; the Church was
inclined to let them off with the infliction of some nominal penance.
Nor was there much difficulty about service in the army. Probably few
enlisted in the legions after they had become Christians; against this
the Church set her face. But she permitted the converted soldier to
remain true to his military oath, for she did not wish to become
embroiled with the State. In a word, there was deep religious peace, at
any rate in Diocletian’s special sphere of influence, Asia, Egypt, and
Syria.

It is to be remembered, however, that there were four rulers, men of
very different characters and each, therefore, certain to regard
Christianity from a different standpoint. Thus there might be religious
peace in Asia and persecution in the West, as, indeed, there was—partial
and spasmodic, but still persecution. Maximian was cruel and ambitious,
an able soldier of the hard Roman type, no respecter of persons, and
careless of human life. Very few modern historians have accepted the
story of the massacre of the Theban Legion at Agauna, near Lake Leman,
for refusal to offer sacrifice and take the oath to the Emperor.
According to the legend, the legion was twice decimated and then cut to
pieces. But it is impossible to believe that there could have been a
legion or even a company of troops from Thebes in Egypt, wholly composed
of Christians, and, even supposing the facts to have been as stated,
their refusal to march in obedience to the Emperor’s orders and rejoin
the main army at a moment when an active campaign was in progress,
simply invited the stroke of doom. Maximian was not the man to tolerate
mutiny in the face of the enemy.

But still there were many Christian victims of Maximian wherever he took
up his quarters—at Rome, Aquileia, Marseilles—mostly soldiers whose
refusal to sacrifice brought down upon them the arm of the law. Maximian
is described in the “Passion of St. Victor” as “a great dragon,” but the
story, even as told by the hagiologist, scarcely justifies the epithet.
Just as the military præfects, before whom Victor was first taken,
begged him to reconsider his position, so Maximian, after ordering a
priest to bring an altar of Jupiter, turned to Victor and said[8]: “Just
offer a few grains of incense; placate Jupiter and be our friend.”
Victor’s answer was to dash the altar to the ground from the hands of
the priest and place his foot triumphantly upon it. We may admire the
fortitude of the martyr, but the martyrdom was self-inflicted, and the
anger of the Emperor not wholly unwarranted. “Be our friend,” he had
said, and his overtures were spurned with contempt.

-----

Footnote 8:

  _Pone thura: placa Jovem et noster amicus esto._

-----

We may suspect, indeed, that this partial persecution was due rather to
the insistence of the martyrs themselves than to deliberate policy on
the part of Maximian. When enthusiastic Christians thrust their
Christianity upon the official notice of the authorities, insulted the
Emperor or the gods, and refused to take the oath or sacrifice on
ceremonial occasions, then martyrdom was the result, and little notice
was taken, for life was cheap. Diocletian, as we have seen, rather
patronised than persecuted Christianity. Maximian’s inclinations towards
cruelty were kept in check by the known wishes of his senior colleague.
Constantius, the Cæsar of Gaul, was one of those refined characters,
tolerant and sympathetic by nature, to whom the idea of persecution for
the sake of religion was intensely repugnant; and Galerius, the Cæsar of
Pannonia, the most fanatical pagan of the group, was not likely, at any
rate during the first few years after his elevation, to run counter to
the wishes of his patron.

What was it, then, that wrought the fatal change in the mind of
Diocletian and turned him from benevolent neutrality to fierce
antagonism? Lactantius attributes it solely to the baleful influence of
Galerius, whom he paints in the very blackest colours. He was a wild
beast, a savage barbarian of alien blood, tall in stature, a mountain of
flesh, abnormally bloated, terrifying to look at, and with a voice that
made men shiver.[9] Behind this monster stood his mother, a barbarian
woman from beyond the Danube, priestess of some wild deity of the
mountains, imbued with a fanatical hatred of the Christians, which she
was for ever instilling into her son. When we have stripped away the
obvious exaggeration of this onslaught we may still accept the main
statement and admit that Galerius was the most active and unsparing
enemy of the Christians in the Imperial circle. This rough soldier,
trained in the school of two such martinets as Aurelian and Probus, who
enforced military discipline by the most pitiless methods, would not
stay to reason with a soldier’s religious prejudices. Unhesitating
obedience or death—that was the only choice he gave to those who served
under him, and when, after his great victory over the Parthians, his
position and prestige in the East were beyond challenge, we find
Christian martyrdoms in the track of his armies, in the Anti-Taurus, in
Cœle-Syria, in Samosata.

-----

Footnote 9:

  _De Mort. Persec._, c. 9.

-----

Galerius began to purge his army of Christians. Unless they would
sacrifice, officers were to lose their rank and private soldiers to be
dismissed ignominiously without the privileges of long service. Several
were put to death in Moesia, where a certain Maximus was Governor. Among
them was a veteran named Julius, who had served in the legion for
twenty-six years, and fought in seven campaigns, without a single black
mark having been entered against his name for any military offence.
Maximus did his best to get him off. “Julius,” he said, “I see that you
are a man of sense and wisdom. Suffer yourself to be persuaded and
sacrifice to the gods.” “I will not,” was the reply, “do what you ask. I
will not incur by an act of sin eternal punishment.” “But,” said the
Governor, “I take the sin upon myself. I will use compulsion so that you
may not seem to act voluntarily. Then you will be able to return in
peace to your house. You will receive the bounty of ten denarii and no
one will molest you.” Evidently, Maximus was heartily sorry that such a
fine old soldier should take up a position which seemed to him so
grotesquely indefensible. But what was Julius’s reply? “Neither this
Devil’s money nor your specious words shall cause me to lose eternal
God. I cannot deny Him. Condemn me as a Christian.” After the
interrogation had gone on for some time, Maximus said: “I pity you, and
I beg you to sacrifice, so that you may live with us.” “To live with you
would be death for me,” rejoined Julius, “but if I die, I shall live.”
“Listen to me and sacrifice; if not, I shall have to keep my word and
order you to death.” “I have often prayed that I might merit such an
end.” “Then you have chosen to die?” “I have chosen a temporary death,
but an eternal life.” Maximus then passed sentence, and the law took its
course.

On another occasion the Governor said to two Christians, named Nicander
and Marcian, who had proved themselves equally resolute, “It is not I
whom you resist; it is not I who persecute you. My hands are unstained
by your blood. If you know that you will fare well on your journey, I
congratulate you.[10] Let your desire be accomplished.” “Peace be with
you, merciful judge,” cried both the martyrs as the sentence was
pronounced.

-----

Footnote 10:

  _Si autem scitis vos bene ituros, gratulor vobis._

-----

The movement seems gradually to have spread from the provinces of
Galerius to those of Maximian. At Tangiers, Marcellus, a centurion of
the Legion of Trajan, threw down his centurion’s staff and belt and
refused to serve any longer. He did so in the face of the whole army
assembled to sacrifice in honour of Maximian’s birthday. A similar scene
took place in Spain at Calahorra, near Tarraco, where two soldiers cast
off their arms exclaiming, “We are called to serve in the shining
company of angels. There Christ commands His cohorts, clothed in white,
and from His lofty throne condemns your infamous gods, and you, who are
the creatures of these gods, or, we should say, these ridiculous
monsters.” Death followed as a matter of course. Looking at the evidence
with absolute impartiality, one begins to suspect that the process of
clearing the Christians out of the army was due quite as much to the
fanaticism of certain Christian soldiers eager for martyrdom, as to any
lust for blood on the part even of Galerius and Maximian.

But what we have to account for is the rise of a fierce anti-Christian
spirit which induced Diocletian—for even Lactantius admits that he was
not easily persuaded—to take active measures against the Christians. It
is certainly noteworthy that about this time the only school of
philosophy which was alive, active, and at all original, was definitely
anti-Christian. We refer, of course, to the Neo-Platonists of
Alexandria. Their principal exponent was the philosopher Porphyry, who
carried on a violent anti-Christian propaganda, though he seems to have
borrowed from Christianity, and more especially from the rigorously
ascetic form which Christianity had assumed in Egypt, many of his
leading tenets. The morality which Porphyry inculcated was elevated and
pure; his religion was mystical to such a degree that none but an expert
philosopher could follow him into the refinements of his abstractions;
but he had for the Christian Church a “theological hatred” of
extraordinary bitterness. The treatise—in fifteen books—in which he
assailed the Divinity of Christ apparently set a fashion in
anti-Christian literature. We hear, for example, of another unnamed
philosopher who “vomited three books against the Christian religion,”
and the violence with which Lactantius denounces him as “an accomplished
hypocrite” makes one suspect that his work had a considerable success.
Still better known was Hierocles, Governor at one time of Palmyra, and
then transferred to the royal province of Bithynia, who wrote a book to
which he gave the name of _The Friend of Truth_, and addressed it, “To
the Christians.” Its interest lies chiefly in the fact that its author
compares with the miracles wrought by Christ those attributed to
Apollonius of Tyana, and denies divinity to both. Lactantius tells us
that this Hierocles was “author and counsellor of the persecution,”[11]
and we may judge, therefore, that there existed among the pagans a
powerful party bitterly opposed to Christianity, carrying on a vigorous
campaign against it, and urging upon the Emperors the advisability of a
sharp repressive policy.

-----

Footnote 11:

  _De Mort. Persec._, c. 16.

-----

They would have no difficulty in making out a case against the
Christians which on the face of it seemed plausible and overwhelming.
They would point to the fanatical spirit manifested, as we have seen, by
a large number of Christian soldiers in the army, which led them to
throw down their arms, blaspheme the gods, and deny the Emperors. They
would point to the anti-social movement, which was especially marked in
Egypt, where the example of St. Antony was drawing crowds of men and
women away into the desert to live out their lives, either in solitary
cells as hermits, or as members of religious communities equally
ascetic, and almost equally solitary. They would point to the aloofness
even of the ordinary Christian in city or in town from its common life,
and to his avoidance of office and public duties. They would point to
the extraordinary closeness of the ties which bound Christians together,
to their elaborate organisation, to the implicit and ready obedience
they paid to their bishops, and would ask whether so powerful a secret
society, with ramifications everywhere throughout the Empire, was not
inevitably a menace to the established authorities. The Christians were
peaceable enough. To accuse them of plotting rebellion was hardly
possible, though the most outrageous calumnies against them and their
rites were sedulously fostered in order to inflame the minds of the
rabble, just as they were against the Jews in the Middle Ages, and are,
even at the present day, in certain parts of the Continent of Europe.
But, at bottom, the real strength of the case against the Christians lay
in the fact that the more enlightened pagans saw that Christianity was
the solvent which was bound to loosen all that held pagan society
together. They instinctively felt what was coming, and were sensible of
approaching doom. Christianity was the enemy, the proclaimed enemy, of
their religion, of their point of view of this life as well as of the
next, of their customs, of their pleasures, of their arts. Paganism was
fighting for existence. What wonder that it snatched at any weapon
wherewith to strike?

[Illustration: BUST OF DIOCLETIAN.]

The personal attitude of Diocletian towards religion in general is best
seen in the edict which he issued against the Manichæans. The date is
somewhat uncertain, but it undoubtedly preceded the anti-Christian
edicts. Manichæanism took its rise in Persia, its principal
characteristic being the practice of thaumaturgy, and it spread fast
throughout the East. Diocletian ordered the chiefs of the sect to be
burned to death; their followers were to have their goods confiscated
and to suffer capital punishment unless they recanted; while persons of
rank who had disgraced themselves by joining such a shameful and
infamous set of men were to lose their patrimony and be sent to the
mines. These were savage enactments, and it is important to see how the
Emperor justified them. Fortunately his language is most explicit. “The
gods,” he says, “have determined what is just and true; the wisest of
mankind, by counsel and by deed, have proved and firmly established
their principles. It is not, therefore, lawful to oppose their divine
and human wisdom, or to pretend that a new religion can correct the old
one. To wish to change the institutions of our ancestors is the greatest
of crimes.” Nothing could be clearer. It is the old official defence of
the State religion, that men are not wiser than their fathers, and that
innovation in worship is likely to bring down the wrath of the gods.
Moreover, as the edict points out, this Manichæanism came from Persia,
the traditional enemy of Rome, and threatened to corrupt the “modest and
tranquil Roman people” with the detestable manners and infamous laws of
the Orient. “Modest and tranquil” are not the epithets which posterity
has chosen to apply to the Roman people of the Empire, but Diocletian’s
point is obvious. Manichæanism was a device of the enemy; it must be
poison, therefore, to the good Roman. Such an argument was born of
prejudice rather than of reason; we shall see it applied yet again to
the Christians, and applied even by the Christian Church to its own
schismatics and heretics.

It was during the winter of 302 that the question was carefully debated
by Diocletian and Galerius—the latter was staying with the senior
Augustus at Nicomedia—whether it was advisable to take repressive
measures against the Christians. According to Lactantius, Galerius
clamoured for blood, while Diocletian represented how mischievous it
would be to throw the whole world into a ferment, and how the Christians
were wont to welcome martyrdom. He argued, therefore, that it would be
quite enough if they purged the court and the army. Then, as neither
would give way, a Council was called, which sided with Galerius rather
than with Diocletian, and it was decided to consult the oracle of Apollo
at Miletus. Apollo returned the strange answer that there were just men
on the earth who prevented him from speaking the truth, and gave that as
the reason why the oracles which proceeded from his tripods were false.
The “just men” were, of course, the Christians. Diocletian yielded, only
stipulating that there should be no bloodshed, while Galerius was for
burning all Christians alive. Such is Lactantius’s story, and it does
credit to Diocletian, inasmuch as it shews his profound reluctance to
disturb the internal peace which his own wise policy had established. As
a propitious day, the Festival of the Terminalia, February 23, 303, was
chosen for the inauguration of the anti-Christian campaign. The church
at Nicomedia was levelled to the ground by the Imperial troops and, on
the following day, an edict was issued depriving Christians of their
privileges as full Roman citizens. They were to be deprived of all their
honours and distinctions, whatever their rank; they were to be liable to
torture; they were to be penalised in the courts by not being allowed to
prosecute for assault, adultery, and theft. Lactantius well says[12]
that they were to lose their liberty and their right of speech. The
penalties extended even to slaves. If a Christian slave refused to
renounce his religion he was never to receive his freedom. The churches,
moreover, were to be destroyed and Christians were forbidden to meet
together. No bloodshed was threatened, as Diocletian had stipulated, but
the Christian was reduced to the condition of a pariah. The edict was no
sooner posted up than, with a bitter jibe at the Emperors, some bold,
indignant Christian tore it down. He was immediately arrested, tortured,
racked, and burnt at the stake. Diocletian had been right. The
Christians made willing martyrs.

-----

Footnote 12:

  _Libertatem denique ac vocem non haberent_ (_De Mort. Persec._, c.
  13).

-----

Soon afterwards there was an outbreak of fire at the palace. Lactantius
accuses Galerius of having contrived it himself so that he might throw
the odium upon the Christians, and he adds that Galerius so worked upon
the fears of Diocletian that he gave leave to every official in the
palace to use the rack in the hope of getting at the truth. Nothing was
discovered, but fifteen days later there was another mysterious
outbreak. Galerius, protesting that he would stay no longer to be burnt
alive, quitted the palace at once, though it was bad weather for
travelling. Then, says Lactantius, Diocletian allowed his blind terrors
to get the better of him, and the persecution began in earnest. He
forced his wife and daughter to recant; he purged the palace, and put to
death some of his most powerful eunuchs, while the Bishop of Nicomedia
was beheaded, and crowds of less distinguished victims were thrown into
prison. Whether there was incendiarism or not, no one can say. Eusebius,
indeed, tells us that Constantine, who was living in the palace at the
time, declared years afterwards to the bishops at the Council of Nicæa
that he had seen with his own eyes the lightning descend and set fire to
the abode of the godless Emperor. But neither Constantine nor Eusebius
was to be believed implicitly when it was a question of some
supernatural occurrence between earth and heaven. The double
conflagration is certainly suspicious, but tyrants do not, as a rule,
set fire to their own palaces when they themselves are in residence,
however strong may be their animus against some obnoxious party in the
State.

A few months passed and Diocletian published a second edict ordering the
arrest of all bishops and clergy who refused to surrender their “holy
books” to the civil officers. Then, in the following year, came a third,
offering freedom to all in prison if they consented to sacrifice, and
instructing magistrates to use every possible means to compel the
obstinate to abandon their faith. These edicts provoked a frenzy of
persecution, and Gaul and Britain alone enjoyed comparative immunity.
Constantius could not, indeed, entirely disregard an order which bore
the joint names of the two Augusti, but he took care that there was no
over-zealousness, and, according to a well-known passage of Lactantius,
he allowed the meeting-places of the Christians, the buildings of wood
and stone which could easily be restored, to be torn down, but preserved
in safety the true temple of God, viz., the bodies of His
worshippers.[13] Elsewhere the persecution may be traced from province
to province and from city to city in the mournful and poignant documents
known as the _Passions of the Martyrs_. Naturally it varied in intensity
according to local conditions and according to the personal
predilections of the magistrates. Where the populace was fiercely
anti-Christian or where the pagan priests were zealous, there the
Christians suffered severely. Their churches would be razed to the
ground and the prisons would be full. Some of the weaker brethren would
recant; others would hide themselves or quit the district; others again
would suffer martyrdom. In more fortunate districts, where public
opinion was with the Christians, the churches might not be destroyed,
though they stood empty and silent.

-----

Footnote 13:

  _Verum autem Dei templum, quod est in hominibus, incolume servavit._
  (_De Mort. Persec._, c. 15).

-----

The fiercest persecution seems to have taken place in Asia Minor. There
had been a partial revolt of the troops at Antioch, easily suppressed by
the Antiochenes themselves, but Diocletian apparently connected it in
some way with the Christians and let his hand fall heavily upon them.
Just at this time, moreover, in the neighbouring kingdom of Armenia,
Saint Gregory the Illuminator was preaching the gospel with marvellous
success, and the Christians of Cappadocia, just over the border, paid
the penalty for the uneasiness which this ferment caused to their
rulers. We hear, for example, in Phrygia of a whole Christian community
being extirpated. Magistrates, senators, and people—Christians all—had
taken refuge in their principal church, to which the troops set fire.
Eusebius, in his _History of the Church_, paints a lamentable picture of
the persecution which he himself witnessed in Palestine and Syria, and,
in his _Life of Constantine_, he says[14] that even the barbarians
across the frontier were so touched by the sufferings of the Christian
fugitives that they gave them shelter. Athanasius, too, declares that he
often heard survivors of the persecution say that many pagans risked the
loss of their goods and the chance of imprisonment in order to hide
Christians from the officers of the law. There is no question of
exaggeration. The most horrible tortures were invented; the most
barbarous and degrading punishments were devised. The victim who was
simply ordered to be decapitated or drowned was highly favoured. In a
very large number of cases death was delayed as long as possible. The
sufferer, after being tortured on the rack, or having eyes or tongue
torn out, or foot or hand struck off, was taken back to prison to
recover for a second examination.

Footnote 14:

  _Vita Const._, ii., 53.

-----

Even when the victim was dead the law frequently pursued the corpse with
its futile vengeance. It was no uncommon thing for a body to be thrown
to the dogs, or to be chopped into fragments and cast into the sea, or
to be burnt and the ashes flung upon running water. He was counted a
merciful judge who allowed the friends of the martyr to bear away the
body to decent burial and lay it in the grave. At Augsburg, when the
magistrate heard that the mother and three servants of a converted
courtesan, named Afra, had placed her body in a tomb, he ordered all
four to be enclosed in one grave with the corpse and burnt alive.

It is, of course, quite impossible to compute the number of the victims,
but it was unquestionably very large. We do not, perhaps, hear of as
many bishops and priests being put to death as might have been expected,
but if the extreme rigour of the law had been enforced the Empire would
have been turned into a shambles. The fact is, as we have said, that
very much depended upon the personal character of the Governors and the
local magistrates. In some places altars were put up in the law courts
and no one was allowed either to bring or defend a suit without offering
sacrifice. In other towns they were erected in the market squares and by
the side of the public fountains, so that one could neither buy nor
sell, nor even draw water, without being challenged to do homage to the
gods. Some Governors, such as Datianus in Spain, Theotecnus in Galatia,
Urbanus of Palestine, and Hierocles of Bithynia and Egypt, were noted
for the ferocity with which they carried out the edicts; others—and,
when the evidence is carefully examined, the humane judges seem to have
formed the majority—presided with reluctance at these lamentable trials.
Many exhausted every means in their power to convert the prisoners back
to the old religion, partly from motives of humanity, and partly, no
doubt, because their success in this respect gained them the notice and
favour of their superiors.

We hear of magistrates who ordered the attendants of the court to place
by force a few grains of incense in the hands of the prisoner and make
him sprinkle it upon the altar, or to thrust into his mouth a portion of
the sacrificial meat. The victim would protest against his involuntary
defilement, but the magistrate would declare that the offering had been
made. Often, the judge sought to bribe the accused into apostasy. “If
you obey the Governor,” St. Victor of Galatia was told, “you shall have
the title of ‘Friend of Cæsar’ and a post in the palace.” Theotecnus
promised Theodotus of Ancyra “the favour of the Emperors, the highest
municipal dignities, and the priesthood of Apollo.” The bribe was great,
but it was withstood. The steadfast confessor gloried in replying to
every fresh taunt, entreaty, or bribe, “I am a Christian.” It was to him
the only, as well as the highest argument.

Sometimes the kindest-hearted judges were driven to exasperation by
their total inability to make the slightest impression upon the
Christians. “Do abandon your foolish boasting,” said Maximus, the
Governor of Cilicia, to Andronicus, “and listen to me as you would
listen to your father. Those who have played the madman before you have
gained nothing by it. Pay honour to our Princes and our fathers and
submit yourself to the gods.” “You do well,” came the reply, “to call
them your fathers, for you are the sons of Satan, the sons of the Devil,
whose works you perform.” A few more remarks passed between judge and
prisoner and then Maximus lost his temper. “I will make you die by
inches,” he exclaimed. “I despise,” retorted Andronicus, “your threats
and your menaces.” While an old man of sixty-five was being led to the
torture, a friendly centurion said to him, “Have pity on yourself and
sacrifice.” “Get thee from me, minister of Satan,” was the reply. The
main feeling uppermost in the mind of the confessor was one of
exultation that he had been found worthy to suffer. Such a spirit could
neither be bent nor broken.

Of active disloyalty to the Emperor there is absolutely no trace. Many
Christian soldiers boasted of their long and honourable service in the
army; civilians were willing to pay unto Cæsar the things that were
Cæsar’s. But Christ was their King. “There is but one God,” cried
Alphæus and Zachæus at Cæsarea, “and only one King and Lord, who is
Jesus Christ.” To the pagan judge this was not merely blasphemy against
the gods, but treason against the Emperor. Sometimes, but not often, the
martyr’s feelings got the better of him and he cursed the Emperor. “May
you be punished,” cried the dauntless Andronicus to Maximus, when the
officers of the court had thrust between his lips the bread and meat of
sacrifice, “may you be punished, bloody tyrant, you and they who have
given you the power to defile me with your impious sacrifices. One day
you will know what you have done to the servants of God.” “Accursed
scoundrel,” said the judge, “dare you curse the Emperors who have given
the world such long and profound peace?” “I have cursed them and I will
curse them,” replied Andronicus, “these public scourges, these drinkers
of blood, who have turned the world upside down. May the immortal hand
of God tolerate them no longer and punish their cruel amusements, that
they may learn and know the evil they have done to God’s servants.” No
doubt, most Christians agreed with the sentiments expressed by
Andronicus, but they rarely gave expression to them. “I have obeyed the
Emperors all the years of my life,” said Bishop Philippus of Heraclea,
“and, when their commands are just, I hasten to obey. For the Holy
Scripture has ordered me to render to God what is due to God and to
Cæsar what is due to Cæsar. I have kept this commandment without flaw
down to the present time, and it only remains for me to give preference
to the things of heaven over the attractions of this world. Remember
what I have already said several times, that I am a Christian and that I
refuse to sacrifice to your gods.” Nothing could be more dignified or
explicit. It is the Emperor-God and his fellow deities of Olympus, not
the Emperor, to whom the Christian refuses homage. During a trial at
Catania in Sicily the judge, Calvisianus, said to a Christian, “Unhappy
man, adore the gods, render homage to Mars, Apollo, and Æsculapius.” The
answer came without a second’s hesitation: “I adore the Father, Son, and
Holy Ghost—the Holy Trinity—beyond whom there is no God. Perish the gods
who have not made heaven and earth and all that they contain. I am a
Christian.” From first to last, in Spain as in Africa, in Italy as in
Sicily, this is the alpha and the omega of the Christian position,
“_Christianus sum_.”

To what extent was the martyrdom self-inflicted? How far did the
Christians pile with their own hands the faggots round the stakes to
which they were tied? It is significant that some churches found it
necessary to condemn the extraordinary exaltation of spirit which drove
men and women to force themselves upon the notice of the authorities and
led them to regard flight from danger as culpable weakness. They not
only did not encourage but strictly forbade the overthrowing of pagan
statues or altars by zealous Christians anxious to testify to their
faith. They did not wish, that is to say, to provoke certain reprisals.
Yet, in spite of all their efforts, martyrdom was constantly courted by
rash and excitable natures in the frenzy of religious fanaticism, like
that which impelled Theodorus of Amasia in Pontus to set fire to a
temple of Cybele in the middle of the city and then boast openly of the
deed. Often, however, such martyrs were mere children. Such was Eulalia
of Merida, a girl of twelve, whose parents, suspecting her intention,
had taken her into the country to be out of harm’s way. She escaped
their vigilance, returned to the city, and, standing before the tribunal
of the judge, proclaimed herself a Christian.

                    ”_Mane superba tribunal adit,
                    Fascibus adstat et in mediis._“

The judge, instead of bidding the officials remove the child, began to
argue with her, and the argument ended in Eulalia spitting in his face
and overturning the statue which had been brought for her to worship.
Then came torture and the stake, a martyred saint, and in later
centuries a stately church, flower festivals, and a charming poem from
the Christian poet, Prudentius. But even his graceful verses do not
reconcile us to the pitiful futility of such child-martyrdom as that of
Eulalia of Merida or Agnes of Rome.

Or take, again, the pathetic inscription found at Testur, in Northern
Africa;

                             “_Sanctæ Tres;
                                Maxima,
                               Donatilla
                              Et Secunda,
                             Bona Puella._”

These were three martyrs of Thuburbo. Two of them, Maxima and Donatilla,
had been denounced to the judge by another woman. Secunda, a child of
twelve, saw her friends from a window in her father’s house, as they
were being dragged off to prison. “Do not abandon me, my sisters,” she
cried. They tried to wave her back. She insisted. They warned her of the
cruel fate which was certain to await her; Secunda declared her
confidence in Him who comforts and consoles the little ones. In the end
they let her accompany them. All three were sentenced to be torn by the
wild beasts of the amphitheatre, but when they stood up to face that
cruel death, a wild bear came and lay at their feet. The judge,
Anulinus, then ordered them to be decapitated. Such is the story that
lies behind those simple and touching words, “_Secunda, Bona Puella_.”

Nor were young men backward in their zeal for the martyr’s crown.
Eusebius tells us of a band of eight Christian youths at Cæsarea, who
confronted the Governor, Urbanus, in a body shouting, “We are
Christians,” and of another youth named Aphianus, who, while reading the
Scriptures, heard the voice of the heralds summoning the people to
sacrifice. He at once made his way to the Governor’s house, and, just as
Urbanus was in the act of offering libation, Aphianus caught his arm and
upbraided him for his idolatry. He simply flung his life away.

In this connection may be mentioned the five martyred statuary workers
belonging to a Pannonian marble quarry. They had been converted by the
exhortations of Bishop Cyril, of Antioch, who had been condemned to
labour in their quarry, and, once having become Christians, their
calling gave them great searching of heart. Did not the Scriptures
forbid them to make idols or graven images of false gods? When,
therefore, they refused to undertake a statue of Æsculapius, they were
challenged as Christians, and sentenced to death. Yet they had not
thought it wrong to carve figures of Victory and Cupid, and they seem to
have executed without scruple a marble group showing the sun in a
chariot, doubtless satisfying themselves that these were merely
decorative pieces, which did not necessarily involve the idea of
worship. But they preferred to die rather than make a god for a temple,
even though that god were the gentle Æsculapius, the Healer.

We might dwell at much greater length upon this absorbing subject of the
persecution of Diocletian, and draw upon the _Passions of the Saints_
for further examples of the marvellous fortitude with which so many of
the Christians endured the most fiendish tortures for the sake of their
faith. “I only ask one favour,” said the intrepid Asterius: “it is that
you will not leave unlacerated a single part of my body.” In the
presence of such splendid fidelity and such unswerving faith, which made
even the weakest strong and able to endure, one sees why the eventual
triumph of the Church was certain and assured. One can also understand
why the memory and the relics of the martyrs were preserved with such
passionate devotion; why their graves were considered holy and credited
with powers of healing; and why, too, the names of their persecutors
were remembered with such furious hatred. It may be too much to expect
the early chroniclers of the Church to be fair to those who framed and
those who put into execution the edicts of persecution, but we, at
least, after so many centuries, and after so many persecutions framed
and directed by the Churches themselves, must try to look at the
question from both sides and take note of the absolute refusal of the
Christian Church to consent to the slightest compromise in its attitude
of hostility to the religious system which it had already dangerously
undermined.

It is not easy from a study of the _Passions of the Saints_ to draw any
sweeping generalisations as to what the public at large thought of the
torture and execution of Christians. We get a glimpse, indeed, of the
ferocity of the populace at Rome when Maximian went thither to celebrate
the Ludi Cereales in 304. The “Passion of St. Savinus” shews an excited
crowd gathered in the Circus Maximus, roaring for blood and repeating
twelve times over the savage cry, “Away with the Christians and our
happiness is complete. By the head of Augustus let not a Christian
survive.”[15] Then, when they caught sight of Hermogenianus, the city
præfect, they called ten times over to the Emperor, “May you conquer,
Augustus! Ask the præfect what it is we are shouting.” Such a scene was
natural enough in the Circus of Rome; was it typical of the Empire?
Doubtless in all the great cities, such as Alexandria, Antioch, Ephesus,
Carthage, the “baser sort” would be quite ready to shout, “Away with the
Christians.” But it is to be remembered that we find no trace anywhere
in this persecution of a massacre on the scale of that of St.
Bartholomew or the Sicilian Vespers. On the contrary, we see that though
the prisons were full, the relations of the Christians were usually
allowed to visit them, take them food, and listen to their exhortations.
Pamphilus of Cæsarea, who was in jail for two years, not only received
his friends during that period, but was able to go on making copies of
the Scriptures!

-----

Footnote 15:

  _Christiani tollantur et voluptas constat; Per caput Augusti
  Christiani non sint._

-----

We rarely hear of the courts being packed with anti-Christian crowds, or
of the judges being incited by popular clamour to pass the death
sentence. The reports of the trials shew us silent, orderly courts, with
the judges anxious not so much to condemn to death as to make a convert.
If Diocletian had wanted blood he could have had it in rivers, not in
streams. But he did not. He wished to eradicate what he believed to be
an impious, mischievous, and, from the point of view of the State’s
security, a dangerous superstition. There was no talk of persecuting for
the sake of saving the souls of heretics; that lamentable theory was
reserved for a later day. Diocletian persecuted for what he considered
to be the good of the State. He lived to witness the full extent of his
failure, and to realise the appalling crime which he had committed
against humanity, amid the general overthrow of the political system
which he had so laboriously set up.

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER III
            THE ABDICATION OF DIOCLETIAN AND THE SUCCESSION
                             OF CONSTANTINE


On the 1st of May, in the year 305, Diocletian, by an act of unexampled
abnegation, resigned the purple and retired into private life. The
renunciation was publicly performed, not in Rome, for Rome had ceased to
be the centre of the political world, but on a broad plain in Bithynia,
three miles from Nicomedia, which long had been the Emperor’s favourite
residence. In the centre of the plain rose a little hill, upon which
stood a column surmounted by a statue of Jupiter. There, years before,
Diocletian had with his own hands invested Galerius with the symbols of
power; there he was now to perform the last act of a ruler by nominating
those whom he thought most fit to succeed him. A large platform had been
constructed; the soldiers of the legions had been ordered to assemble in
soldier’s meeting and listen to their chief’s farewell. Diocletian took
leave of them in few words. He was old, he said, and infirm. He craved
for rest after a life of toil. The Empire needed stronger and more
youthful hands than his. His work was done. It was time for him to go.

The two Augusti were laying down their powers simultaneously, for
Maximian was performing a similar act of renunciation at Milan. The two
Cæsars, Constantius and Galerius, would thus automatically move up into
the empty places and become Augusti in their stead. It had been
necessary, therefore, to select two new Cæsars, and these Diocletian was
about to present to the loyalty of the legions. We are told that the
secret had been well kept, and that the soldiers waited with suppressed
excitement until Diocletian suddenly announced that his choice had
fallen upon Severus, one of his trusted generals, and upon Maximin Daza,
a nephew of Galerius. Severus had already been sent to Milan to be
invested by Maximian; Maximin was present on the tribunal and was then
and there robed in the purple. The ceremony over, Diocletian—a private
citizen once more, though he still retained the title of Augustus—drove
back to Nicomedia and at once set out for Salona, on the Adriatic, where
he had built a sumptuous palace for his retirement.

[Illustration:

  CONSTANTINE THE GREAT.
  FROM GROSVENOR’S “CONSTANTINOPLE.”
]

The scene which we have depicted is described most fully and most
graphically by a historian whose testimony, unfortunately, is entirely
suspect in matters of detail. The author of _The Deaths of the
Persecutors_—it is very doubtful whether Lactantius, to whom the work
has long been attributed, really wrote it, but for the sake of
convenience of reference we may credit him with it—is at once the most
untrustworthy and the most vigorous and attractive writer of the period.
His object throughout is to blacken the characters of the Emperors who
persecuted the Christian Church, and he does not scruple to distort
their actions, pervert their motives, and even invent, with well
calculated malice, stories to their discredit. Lactantius knows, or
pretends to know, all that takes place even in the most secret recesses
of the palace; he recounts all that passes at the most confidential
conferences; and with consummate artistry he throws in circumstantial
details and touches of local colour which give an appearance of truth,
but are really the most convincing proofs of falsehood. Lactantius
represents the abdication of Diocletian as the act of an old man,
shattered in health, and even in mind, by a distressing malady sent by
Heaven as the just punishment of his crimes. He depicts him cowering in
tears before the impatient insolence of Galerius, now peremptorily
clamouring for the succession with threats of civil war. They discuss
who shall be the new Cæsars. “Whom shall we appoint?” asks Diocletian.
“Severus,” says Galerius. “What?” says the other, “that drunken sot of a
dancer who turns night into day and day into night?” “He is worthy,”
replies Galerius, “for he has proved a faithful general, and I have sent
him to Maximian to be invested.” “Well, well,” says the old man, “who is
the second choice?” “He is here,” says Galerius, indicating his nephew,
a young semi-barbarian named Maximin Daza. “Why, who is this you offer
me?” “He is my kinsman,” is the reply. Then said Diocletian, with a
groan, “These are not fit men to whom to entrust the care of the State.”
“I have proved them,” said Galerius. “Well, you must look to it,”
rejoins Diocletian, “you who are about to assume the reins of the
Empire. I have toiled enough. While I ruled, I took care that the State
stood safe. If any harm now befalls, the fault is not mine.”[16]

-----

Footnote 16:

  Lactant., _De Mort. Persec._, c. 18.

-----

Such is a characteristic specimen of Lactantius’s history, and so, when
he comes to describe the ceremony of abdication, he makes Galerius draw
Maximin Daza to the front of the group of imperial officials by whom
Diocletian is surrounded, and represents the soldiers as staring in
surprise at their new Cæsar, as at one whom they had never seen before.
Yet a favourite nephew of Galerius can scarcely have been a stranger to
the troops of Nicomedia. Galerius not only—according to Lactantius—drew
forward Maximin Daza, but at the same time rudely thrust back into the
throng the son of Constantius, the senior of the two new Augusti. This
was young Constantine, the future Emperor, who for some years past had
been living at the Court of Diocletian.

But it was no broken down Emperor in his dotage, passing, according to
the spasms of his malady, from sanity to insanity, who resigned the
throne on the plain of Nicomedia. Diocletian was but fifty-nine years of
age. He had just recovered, it is true, from a very severe illness,
which, even on the testimony of Lactantius, had caused “grief in the
palace, sadness and tears among his guards, and anxious suspense
throughout the whole State.”[17] But his brain was never clearer than
when he took final leave of his troops. His abdication was the
culminating point of his policy. He had planned it twenty years before.
He had kept it before his eyes throughout a long and busy reign. It was
the completion of, the finishing touch to his great political system. It
would have been perfectly easy for Diocletian to forswear himself.
Probably very few of his contemporaries believed that he would fulfil
his promise to abdicate after twenty years of reign. Kings talk of the
allurements of retirement, but they usually cling to power as
tenaciously as to life. The first Augustus had delighted to mystify his
Ministers of State by speaking of restoring the Republic. He died an
Emperor. Diocletian, alone of the Roman Emperors, laid down the sceptre
when he was at the height of his glory. It was a hazardous experiment,
but he was faithful to his principles. He thought it best for the world
that its master should not grow old and feeble on the throne.

-----

Footnote 17:

  _De Mort. Persec._, c. 17.

-----

Constantine, of whom we have just caught a glimpse at the abdication of
Diocletian, was born either in 273 or 274. The uncertainty attaching to
the year of his birth attaches even more to its place. No one now
believes that he was born in Britain—a pleasing fiction which was
invented by English monks, who delighted to represent his mother Helena
as the daughter of a British King, though they were quite at a loss
where to locate his kingdom. The only foundation for this was a passage
in one of the Panegyrists, who said that Constantine had bestowed lustre
upon Britain “_illic oriundo_.” But the words are now taken as referring
to his accession and not to his birth. He was certainly proclaimed
Emperor in Britain, and might thus be said to have “sprung thence.”
Constantine’s birth-place seems to have been either Naissus, a city in
Upper Moesia, or Drepanum, a city near Nicomedia. The balance of
evidence, though none of it is very trustworthy, inclines to the former.

His father was Constantius Chlorus, afterwards Cæsar and Augustus, but
at the time of Constantine’s birth merely a promising officer in the
Roman army. Constantius belonged to one of the leading families of
Moesia and his mother was a niece of the capable and soldierly Claudius,
the conqueror of the Goths. Claudius had only been dead four years when
Constantine was born, and we may suppose that it was his influence which
had set Constantius in the way of rapid promotion. He had formed one of
those secondary marriages which were recognised by Roman law, when the
wife was not of the same social standing as the husband. Helena is said
to have been the daughter of an innkeeper of Drepanum, and Constantine’s
enemies lost no opportunity of dwelling upon the obscurity of his
ancestry upon his mother’s side. But that he was born in wedlock is
beyond question. Had the relationship between Constantius and Helena
been an irregular one, there would have been no need for Maximian to
insist on a divorce when he ratified Constantius’s elevation to the
purple by giving him the hand of his daughter, Theodora.

Of Constantine’s early years we know nothing, though we may suppose that
they were spent in the eastern half of the Empire. Constantius served
with the eastern legions in the campaigns which preceded the accession
of Diocletian in 284, and it is as a young officer in the entourage of
that Emperor that Constantine makes his earliest appearance in history.
Eusebius tells us[18] that he first saw the future champion of
Christianity in the train of Diocletian during one of the latter’s
visits to Palestine. He recalls his vivid remembrance of the young
Prince standing at the Emperor’s right hand and attracting the gaze of
all beholders by the beauty of his person and the imposing air which
betokened his consciousness of having been born to rule. Eusebius adds
that while Constantine’s physical strength extorted the respectful
admiration of his younger associates, his remarkable qualities of
prudence and wisdom aroused the jealousy and excited the apprehensions
of his chiefs. However, the recollections of the Bishop of Cæsarea, with
half a century of interval, are somewhat suspect, and we need see no
more than a high-spirited, handsome, and keen-witted Prince in
Eusebius’s “paragon of bodily strength, physical beauty, and mental
distinction.” As for Diocletian’s jealous fears, they are best refuted
by the fact that Constantine was promoted to be a tribune of the first
rank and saw considerable military service. The foolish stories that his
superiors set him to fight a gigantic Sarmatian in single combat, and
dared him to contend against ferocious wild beasts, in the hope that his
pride and courage might be his undoing, may be dismissed as childish. If
Diocletian had feared Constantine, Constantine would never have survived
his residence in the palace.

-----

Footnote 18:

  _De Vita Const._, i., 19.

-----

It is certainly remarkable that we should know so little, not only of
the youth but of the early manhood of Constantine, who was at least in
his thirty-first year when Diocletian retired into private life. Why had
he spent all those years in the East instead of sharing with his father
the dangers and glories of his Gallic and British campaigns? The answer
is doubtless to be found in the fact that it was no part of Diocletian’s
system for the son to succeed the father. Constantius’s loyalty was
never in doubt, but Constantine, if Zosimus[19] can be trusted, had
already given evidence of consuming ambition to rule. However that may
be, it is obvious that his position became much more hazardous when
Galerius succeeded Diocletian as supreme ruler in the palace of
Nicomedia. One can understand Galerius wondering whether the capable
young Prince, who slept under his roof, was destined to cross his path,
and the anxiety of Constantius, conscious of declining strength, that
his long-absent son should join him. Constantine himself might well be
uneasy, and scheme to quit a place where he could not hope to satisfy
his natural ambitions. We need not doubt, therefore, that Constantius
repeatedly sent messages to Galerius asking that his son might come to
him, or that the son was eager to comply.

-----

Footnote 19:

  Zosimus, ii., 8. περιφανὴς γὰρ ἦν ἤδη πολλοῖς ὁ κατέχων ὰυτὸυ ἔρως τῆς
  βασιλέιας.

-----

Lactantius,[20] who does his best to make history romantic and exciting,
describes the eventual escape of Constantine in one of his most graphic
chapters. He shows us Galerius in his palace reluctantly signing an
order which authorised Constantine to travel post across the Continent
of Europe. He only consented to do so, we are told, because he could
find no pretext for further delay, and he gave the order to Constantine
late in the afternoon, on the understanding that he should see him again
in the morning to receive his final instructions. Yet all the time, says
Lactantius, Galerius was scheming to find some excuse for keeping him in
Nicomedia, or contemplated sending a message to Severus, asking him to
delay Constantine when he reached the border of northern Italy. Galerius
then took dinner, retired for the night, and slept so well and
deliberately that he did not wake until the following midday (_Cum
consulto ad medium diem usque dormisset_). He then sent for Constantine
to come to his apartment. But Constantine was already gone, scouring the
roads as fast as the post horses could carry him, and so anxious to
increase the distance between himself and Galerius that he caused the
tired beasts to be hamstrung at every stage. He had waited for Galerius
to retire and had then slipped away, lest the Emperor should change his
mind. Galerius was furious when he found that he had been outwitted. He
ordered pursuit. His servants came back to tell him that the fugitive
had swept the stables clear of horses. And then Galerius could scarce
restrain his tears (_Vix lacrimas tenebat_).

-----

Footnote 20:

  _De Mort. Persec._, c. 24.

-----

It is a story which does infinite credit to Lactanius’s feeling for
strong melodramatic situation. No picturesque detail is omitted—the
setting sun, the tyrant plotting vengeance over dinner, his resolve to
sleep long, his baffled triumph, the escaping hero, and the butchery of
the horses. Yet we question if there is more than a shred of truth in
the whole story. Galerius would not have given Constantine the sealed
order overnight had he intended to take it back the next morning. A word
to the officer of the watch in the palace and to the officer on duty at
the city gate would have prevented Constantine from quitting Nicomedia.
The imperial post service must have been very much underhorsed if the
Emperor’s servants could not find mounts for the effective pursuit of a
single fugitive. Galerius may very well have been unwilling for
Constantine to go, and Constantine doubtless covered the early stages of
his long journey at express speed, in order to minimise the chance of
recall, but the lurid details of Lactantius are probably simply the
outcome of his own lively imagination.

Constantine seems to have found his father at the port of Gessoriacum
(Boulogne), just waiting for a favourable wind to carry him across the
Channel into Britain. Constantius was ill, and welcomed with great joy
the son whom he had not seen for many years. We do not know what time
elapsed before Constantius died at York,—apparently it was after the
conclusion of a campaign in Scotland,—but before he died he commended to
Constantine the welfare of his young half-brothers and half-sisters, the
eldest of whom was no more than thirteen years of age, and he also
evidently commended Constantine himself to the loyalty of his legions.
The Emperor, we are informed both by Lactantius and by the author of the
Seventh Panegyric, died with a mind at rest because he was sure of his
heir and successor—Jupiter himself, says the pagan orator,[21] stretched
out his right hand and welcomed him among the gods. Clearly, the ground
had been well prepared, for no sooner was the breath out of
Constantius’s body than the troops saluted Constantine with the title of
Augustus. Aurelius Victor adds the interesting detail that he had no
stouter supporter than Erocus, a Germanic King, who was serving as an
auxiliary in the Roman army. Constantine was nothing loth, though, as
usual in such circumstances, he may have feigned a reluctance which he
did not feel. His panegyrist, indeed, represents him as putting spurs to
his horse to enable him to shake off the robe which the soldiers sought
to throw over his shoulders, and suggests that it had been Constantine’s
intention to write “to the senior Princes” and consult their wishes as
to the choice of a successor. Had he done so, he knew very well that
Galerius would have sent over to Britain some trusted lieutenant of his
own to take command and Constantine would have received peremptory
orders to return. Instead of that, Constantine assumed the insignia of
an Emperor, and wrote to Galerius announcing his elevation. Galerius, it
is said, hesitated long as to the course he should adopt. That the news
angered him we may be sure. Apart from all personal considerations, this
choice of an Emperor by an army on active service was a return to the
bad old days of military rule, from which Diocletian had rescued the
Empire, and was a clear warning that the new system had not been
established on a permanent basis. The only alternative, however, before
Galerius was acceptance or war. For the latter he was hardly prepared,
and moreover, there was no reply to the argument that Constantius had
been senior Augustus, and, therefore, had been fully entitled to have
his word in the appointment of a successor. Galerius gave way. He
accepted the laurelled bust which Constantine had sent to him and,
instead of throwing it into the fire with the officer who had brought
it—which, according to Lactantius, had been his first impulse,--he sent
the messenger back with a purple robe to his master as a sign that he
frankly admitted his claims to partnership in the Empire.

-----

Footnote 21:

  _Pan. Vet._, vii., 7.

-----

But while he acknowledged Constantine as Cæsar, he refused him the full
title of Augustus, which he bestowed upon the Cæsar Severus. This has
been represented as an act of petty spite. In reality, it was simply the
automatic working of the system of Diocletian. The latest winner of
imperial dignity naturally took the fourth place. Constantine accepted
the check without demur. He had not spent so many years by the side of
Diocletian and Galerius without discovering that if it came to war, it
was the master of the best army who was sure to be the winner and
survivor, whether his title were Cæsar or Augustus. Thus, in July, 306,
Constantine commenced his eventful reign as the Cæsar of the West,
overlord of Gaul, Spain, and Britain, and commander of the Army of the
Rhine, and, for the next six years, down to his invasion of Italy in
312, he spent most of his time in the Gallic provinces, where he gained
the reputation of being a capable soldier and a generous Prince.

Gaul was slowly recovering from chaos and ruin. During the anarchy which
had preceded the accession of Diocletian, she had lain at the mercy of
the Germanic tribes across the Rhine. The Roman watch on the river had
been almost abandoned; the legions and the garrisons had been so
weakened as to be powerless to keep the invader in check. The Gallic
provinces were, in the striking words of the Panegyrist, “maddened by
their injuries of the years gone by.”[22] The result had been the
peasant rising of the Bagaudæ, ruthlessly suppressed by Maximian in 285,
but the desperate condition of the country may be inferred from the fact
that Diocletian and Maximian felt compelled to recognise the pretensions
of Carausius in the province of Britain, which, for some years, was
practically severed from the Empire. And, moreover, the peace of Gaul,
which Maximian laboriously restored, was punctuated by invasion from the
Germans across the Rhine. In the Panegyric of Mamertinus there occurs a
curious passage, which shows with what eyes the Romans regarded that
river. The orator is eulogising Maximian in his most fulsome strain for
restoring tranquillity, and then says: “Was there ever an Emperor before
our day who did not congratulate himself that the Gallic provinces were
protected by the Rhine? When did the Rhine shrink in its channel after a
long spell of fine weather without making us shiver with fear? When did
it ever swell to a flood without giving us an extra sense of
security?”[23] In other words, the danger of invasion rose and fell with
the rising and falling of the Rhine. But now, continues the Panegyrist,
“thanks thanks to Maximian, all our fears are gone. The Rhine may dry up
and shrink until it can scarce roll the smooth pebbles in its limpid
shallows, and none will be afraid. As far as I can see beyond the Rhine,
all is Roman” (_Quicquid ultra Rhenum prospicio, Romanum est_). Rarely
has a court rhetorician uttered a more audacious lie.

-----

Footnote 22:

  _Gallias priorum temporum injuriis efferatas_, _Pan._, vi., 8.

Footnote 23:

  _Pan. Vet._, ii., 7.

-----

There was no quality of permanence in the Gallic peace. Constantius took
advantage of a temporary lull to recover Britain, but in 301 he was
again fighting the invading Germans and Franks, winning victories which
had to be repeated in the following summer, and making good the dearth
of labourers on the devastated lands of Gaul by the captives he had
taken in battle. There is a remarkable passage in the Fifth Panegyric in
which the author refers to the long columns of captives which he had
seen on the march in Gaul, men, women, and children on their way to the
desert regions assigned to them, there to bring back to fertility by
their labour as slaves the very countryside which in their freedom they
had pillaged and laid waste. He recalled the familiar sight of these
savage barbarians tamed to surprising quiescence, and waiting in the
public places of the Æduan cities until they were told off to their new
masters. Gaul had suffered so long from these roving ruffians from over
the Rhine that the orator broke out into a pæan of exultation at the
thought that the once dreaded Chamavan or Frisian now tilled his estates
for him, and that the vagabond freebooter had become an agricultural
labourer, who drove his stock to the Gallic markets and cheapened the
price of commodities by increasing the sources of supply.

Full allowance must be made for exaggeration. The tribes, which are
described as having been extirpated, reappear later on in the same
numbers as before, and there was security only so long as the Emperor
and his legions were on the spot. When Constantius crossed to Britain on
the expedition which terminated with his death, the Franks took
advantage of his absence to “violate the peace.”[24] The words would
seem to imply that there had been a treaty between Constantius and the
Kings Ascaricus and Regaisus. They crossed the Rhine and Constantine,
the new Cæsar, hastened back from Britain to confront them. Where the
battle took place is not known, but both Kings were captured and,
together with a multitude of their followers, flung to the wild beasts
in the amphitheatre at Treves. Constantine, who prided himself upon his
clemency to a Roman foe, whose sensitive soul was harrowed when even a
wicked enemy perished,[25] inflicted a fearful punishment.

  “Those slain in battle were beyond numbers; very many more were taken
  prisoners. All their flocks were carried off or butchered; all their
  villages burnt with fire; all their young men, who were too
  treacherous to be admitted into the Roman army, and too brutal to act
  as slaves, were thrown to the wild beasts, and fatigued the ravening
  creatures because there were so many of them to kill.”[26]

-----

Footnote 24:

  _Pan._, vii., 10.

Footnote 25:

  _Gravate apud animum tuum etiam mali pereunt._—_Pan._, x., 8.

Footnote 26:

  _Pan._, vii., 12.

-----

Those atrocious sentences—written in praise, not in
condemnation—assuredly throw some light upon the “perpetual hatreds and
inextinguishable rage”[27] of the Franks. The common herd, says the
rhetorician, may be slaughtered by the hundred without their becoming
aware of the slaughter; it saves time and trouble to slay the leaders of
an enemy whom you wish to conquer.[28] The effect for the moment was
decisive, even if we refuse to believe that the castles and strong
places, set at intervals along the banks of the Rhine, were henceforth
regarded rather as ornaments to the frontier than as a source of
protection. The bridge, too, which Constantine built at Cologne, was
likewise built for business and not, as the orator suggests, for the
glory of the Empire and the beauty of the landscape. When we read of the
war galleys, which ceaselessly patrolled the waters of the Rhine, and of
the soldiery stationed along its banks from source to mouth,[29] we may
judge how anxiously the watch was kept, how nervously alert the Cæsar or
Augustus of the West required to be to guard the frontier, and how
profound a respect he entertained for the free German whom he called
barbarian.

-----

Footnote 27:

  _Odia perpetua et inexpiabiles iras._

Footnote 28:

  _Compendium est devincendorum hostium duces sustulisse._—_Pan._, vii.,
  11.

Footnote 29:

  _Pan._, vii., 13.

-----

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER IV
                     CONSTANTINE AND HIS COLLEAGUES


While Constantine thus peacefully succeeded his father in the command of
Gaul, Spain, and Britain, Italy was the scene of continued disturbance
and of a successful usurpation. We have seen how Severus, an officer of
the eastern army and a trusted friend of Galerius, had been chosen to
take over the command which Maximian so unwillingly laid down at Milan.
He was proclaimed Cæsar, with Italy and Africa for his portion, and the
administration passed into his hands. But he preferred, apparently, to
remain on the Illyrian border rather than shew himself in Rome, and, in
his absence, Maxentius, a son of Maximian, took the opportunity of
claiming the heritage of which he considered himself to have been
robbed.

No single historian has had a good word to say for Maxentius, who is
described by Lactantius as “a man of depraved mind, so consumed with
pride and stubbornness that he paid no deference or respect either to
his father or his father-in-law and was in consequence hated by
both.”[30] He had married a daughter of Galerius, but had been thrust on
one side at the choosing of the new Cæsars, and Severus and Maximin Daza
had been preferred to him. He owed his elevation to the purple to a
successful mutiny on the part of the Prætorians at Rome, and to the
general discontent of the Roman population. It is evident that Rome
watched with anger and jealousy the loss of her old exclusive and
imperial position. The Emperors no longer resided on the Palatine, and
ignored and disdained the city on the Tiber. Diocletian had preferred
Nicomedia; Maximian had fixed his Court at Milan. The imperial trappings
at Rome were becoming a mockery. When, in addition to neglect, it was
ordered that Italy should no longer be exempt from the census, and that
the sacred Saturnian soil should submit to the exactions of the
tax-gatherer, public opinion was ripe for revolt.

-----

Footnote 30:

  _De Mort. Persec._, c. 18.

-----

Lactantius affects to see in the extension of the census to Rome a
crowning example of Galerius’s rapacity. He speaks of the Emperor
“devouring the whole world,” and declares that his madness carried him
to such outrageous lengths that he would not suffer even the Roman
people to escape bondage. But Galerius was thoroughly justified in the
step he took. The immunity of Rome from taxation had been a monstrous
piece of fiscal injustice to the rest of the world, designed merely to
flatter the pride and purse of the Roman citizen. Galerius, moreover,
had disbanded some of the Prætorians—who were at once the Household
Troops and the permanent garrison of the capital; but now that the
Emperor and the Court had quitted Rome, their _raison d’être_ was gone.
The vast expenditure on their pay and their barracks was money thrown
away. Galerius, therefore, abolished the Prætorian camps. Such an act
would give clear warning that the absence of the Emperors was not merely
temporary, but permanent, that the shifting of the capital had been due
not merely to personal predilections, but to abiding political reasons.

That the Prætorians themselves received the order with sullen anger may
well be understood. For three centuries they had been the _corps
d’élite_ of the Roman army, enjoying special pay and special advantages.
They had made and unmade Emperors. They had repeatedly held the fortunes
of the Empire in their hands. The traditions of their regiments fostered
pride and arrogance, for they had seen little active service in their
long history, and the severest conflicts they had had to face were
tumults in the imperial city. Now their privileges were destroyed by a
stroke of the pen, and needing but little instigation to rebellion, they
offered the purple to Maxentius, who gladly accepted it. Nor, it is
said, were the people unfavourable to his cause, for Maxentius’s agents
had already been busy among them, and so, after Abellius, the præfect of
the city, had been murdered, Maxentius made himself master of Rome
without a struggle. His position, however, was very precarious. He had
practically no army and he knew that neither Galerius nor Severus would
recognise his pretensions. The latter had already taken over the command
of the armies of Maximian, and was the nominee of Galerius, who at once
incited his colleague to march upon Rome. Maxentius saw that his only
chance of success was to corrupt his father’s old legions, and with this
object in view he sent a purple robe to Maximian, urging him to resume
his place and title of Augustus. Maximian agreed with alacrity. He had
been spending his enforced leisure not in amateur gardening and
contentment, like his colleague at Salona, but in his Campanian villa,
chafing at his lost dignity. Hence he eagerly responded to the summons
of his son and resumed the purple, not so much as Maxentius’s supporter,
but as the senior acting Augustus.

Severus marched straight down the Italian peninsula and laid siege to
Rome, only to find himself deserted by his soldiers. According to
Zosimus, the troops which first played him false were a Moorish
contingent fresh from Africa. Then, when the treachery spread, Severus
hastily retired on Ravenna, where he could maintain touch with Galerius
in Illyria, and was there besieged by Maximian and Maxentius. Doubtless,
if he had waited, Galerius would have sent him reinforcements or come in
person to his assistance, for his own prestige was deeply involved in
that of Severus. But the latter seems to have allowed himself to be
enticed out of his strong refuge by the plausible overtures of his
rivals. He set out for Rome, prepared to resign the throne on condition
of receiving honourable treatment, but on reaching a spot named “The
Three Taverns,” on the Appian Road, he was seized and thrown into
chains. The only consideration he received from his captors was that
they allowed him to choose his own way of relieving them of his
presence. He opened his veins. So gentle a death in those violent times
was considered “good.”[31]

-----

Footnote 31:

  _Nihil aliud impetravit nisi bonam mortem._—_De Mort. Persec._, c. 26.

-----

This victory over Severus, gained with such astonishing ease, speaks
well for the popularity of Maximian with his old soldiers. Galerius
prepared to avenge the defeat and murder of his friend and invaded Italy
at the head of a large army. He too, like Severus, marched down the
peninsula, but he got no nearer to Rome than Narnia, sixty miles
distant. There he halted, despite the fact that no opposition was being
offered to his advance. Why? The reason is undoubtedly to be found in
the attitude of Constantine, who had mobilised his army upon the Gallic
frontier and was waiting on events. There was no love lost between
Constantine and Galerius. If Constantine crossed the Alps and followed
down on the track of Galerius, the latter would find himself between two
fires. Galerius is represented by Zosimus as being suspicious of the
loyalty of his troops; it is more probable that he decided to retreat as
soon as he heard that Constantine had thrown in his lot with Maximian
and Maxentius. Maximian had been sedulously trying to secure alliances
for himself and his son. He had made overtures to the recluse of Salona.
But Diocletian had turned a deaf ear. Even if he had hankered after
power again, he would hardly have declared himself in opposition to the
ruler of Illyria, while he was dwelling within reach of Galerius. With
Constantine, however, Maximian had better success. He gave him his
daughter Fausta in marriage and incited him to attack Galerius, who at
once drew his troops off into Illyria, after laying waste the
Transpadane region with fire and sword.

[Illustration: THE GOLDEN GATE OF DIOCLETIAN’S PALACE AT SALONA
(SPALATO).]

Some very curious stories are told in connection with this expedition of
Galerius. Lactantius declares that he invaded Italy with the intention
of extinguishing the Senate and butchering the people of Rome; that he
found the gates of all the cities shut against him; and discovered that
he had not brought sufficient troops with him to attempt a siege of the
capital. “He had never seen Rome,” says Lactantius naïvely, “and thought
it was not much bigger than the cities with which he was familiar.”
Galerius was, it is true, a rough soldier of the camp, but it is
ludicrous to suppose that he was not fully cognisant of the topography
and the fortifications of Rome. Then we are told that some of the
legions were afflicted with scruples at the idea of being called to
fight for a father-in-law against his son-in-law—as though there were
prohibited degrees in hatreds—and shrank as Roman soldiers from the
thought of moving to the assault of Rome. And, as a finishing touch to
this most extraordinary canvas, Lactantius paints into it the figure of
Galerius kneeling at the feet of his soldiers, praying them not to
betray him, and offering them large rewards. We do not recognise
Galerius in such a guise. Again, an unknown historian, of whose work
only a few fragments survive, says that when Galerius reached Narnia he
opened communications with Maximian and proposed to treat for peace, but
that his overtures were contemptuously spurned. This does not violate
the probabilities like the reckless malevolence of Lactantius, but,
after all, the simplest explanation is the one which we have given
above. Galerius halted and then retired when he heard that Constantine
had come to an understanding with Maximian, had married his daughter,
and was waiting and watching on the Gallic border. No pursuit seems to
have been attempted.

Maximian and Maxentius were thus left in undisputed possession of Italy.
They were clearly in alliance with Constantine, but their relations with
one another were exceedingly anomalous. Both are represented in equally
odious colours. Eutropius describes the father as “embittered and
brutal, faithless, troublesome, and utterly devoid of good manners”;
Aurelius Victor says of the son that no one ever liked him, not even his
own father. Indeed, the scandal-mongers of the day denied the parentage
of Maxentius and said that he was the son of some low-born Syrian and
had been foisted upon Maximian by his wife as her own child. Public
opinion, however, was inclined to throw the blame of the rupture, which
speedily took place between Maximian and Maxentius, upon the older man,
who is depicted as a restless and mischievous intriguer. In Rome, at any
rate, the army looked to the son as its chief, and as there was but one
army, there was no room for two Emperors. Lactantius tells the story
that Maximian called a great mass meeting of citizens and soldiers,
dilated at length upon the evils of the situation, and then, turning to
his son, declared that he was the cause of all the trouble and snatched
the purple from his shoulders. But Maximian had the mortification of
seeing Maxentius sheltered instead of slaughtered by the soldiers, and
it was he himself who was driven with ignominy from the city, like a
second Tarquin the Proud.

[Illustration:

  BUST OF MAXIMIAN AT ROME.
  PHOTOGRAPH BY ALINARI.
]

Whether these circumstantial details are to be accepted or not, there is
no doubt as to the sequel. Maximian was expelled from Rome and Italy,
and began a series of wanderings which were only to end with his death.
He seems first of all to have fled into Gaul and thrown himself upon the
protection of his son-in-law, Constantine, and then to have opened up
negotiations with Galerius, who must naturally have desired to establish
some _modus vivendi_ between all the rival Emperors. Galerius called a
conference at Carnuntum on the Danube and invited the presence of
Diocletian. Maximian was there; so too was Licinius, an old
companion-in-arms of Galerius and his most trusted lieutenant. Of the
debates which took place no word has survived. But the fact that
Diocletian was invited to attend is clear proof that Galerius regarded
him with the profound respect that was due to the senior Augustus and
the founder of the system which had broken down so badly. Galerius
wished the old man to suggest a way out of the _impasse_ which had been
reached, to devise some plan whereby his dilapidated fabric might still
be patched up. Even in his retirement the practical wisdom of Diocletian
was gladly recognised, and three years later we find one of the
Panegyrists sounding his praises in the presence of Constantine. This
shews that Diocletian and Constantine were on friendly terms, else
Diocletian would only have been mentioned with abuse, or would have been
passed over in significant silence. The passage deserves quotation:

  “That divine statesman, who was the first to share his Empire with
  others and the first to lay it down, does not regret the step he took,
  nor thinks that he has lost what he voluntarily resigned; nay, he is
  truly blessed and happy, since, even in his retirement, such mighty
  Princes as you offer him the protection of your deep respect. He is
  upheld by a multiplicity of Empires; he rejoices in the cover of your
  shade.”[32]

-----

Footnote 32:

  _Sed et ille multijugo fultus imperio et vestro lætus tegitur
  umbraculo._—_Pan. Vet._, vii., 15.

-----

Diocletian would not have been called to Carnuntum, or, if called, he
would scarcely have undertaken so tedious a journey, had there not been
affairs of the highest moment to be discussed. We know of only one
certain result of this strange council of Emperors. It is that a new
Augustus was created by Galerius without passing through the
intermediate stage of being a Cæsar. He was found in Licinius, to whom
was assigned the administration of Illyria with the command of the
Danubian legions, and the status of second rank in the hierarchy of the
Augusti, or rather of the Augusti in active life. Galerius, we may
infer, was sensible of the approaching breakdown of his health and
wished his friend Licinius to be ready to step into his place.
Apparently, a genuine attempt was made to restore to something like its
old position the system of Diocletian. Perhaps as reasonable a
supposition as any is that it was decided at the conference that
Diocletian and Maximian should again be relegated to the ranks of
retired Augusti, that Galerius and Licinius should be the two active
Augusti, and Constantine and Maximin the two Cæsars. Maximian had
unquestionably gone to Carnuntum with the hope of fishing in troubled
waters and Lactantius[33] even attributes to him a wild scheme for
assassinating Galerius. It is, at any rate, certain that he left the
conference in a fury of disappointment. The ambitious and restless old
man had received no encouragement to his hopes of again being supreme
over part of the Empire.

-----

Footnote 33:

  _De Mort. Persec._, c. 29.

-----

But what then of Maxentius, who was in possession of Italy and Africa?
If the theory we have propounded be right, he must have been studiously
ignored and treated as a usurper, to be thrown out—just as Carausius had
been—at a favourable opportunity. There is a passage in Lactantius which
seems to corroborate this suggestion. That author says that Maximin
Daza, the Cæsar of Egypt and Syria and the old protégé of Galerius,
heard with anger that Licinius had been promoted over his head to be
Augustus and hold the second place in the charmed circle of Emperors. He
sent angry remonstrances; Galerius returned a soft answer. Maximin an
even more aggressive bearing (_tollit audacius cornua_), urged more
peremptorily than ever his superior right, and spurned Galerius’s
entreaties and commands. Then,—Lactantius goes on to say,—overborne by
Maximin’s stubborn obstinacy, Galerius offered a compromise, by naming
himself and Licinius as Augusti and Maximin and Constantine as Sons of
the Augusti, instead of simple Cæsars.

But Maximin was obdurate and wrote saying that his soldiers had taken
the law into their own hands and had already saluted him as Augustus.
Galerius therefore, in the face of the accomplished fact, gave way and
recognised not only Maximin but Constantine also as full Augusti. Such
is the story of Lactantius. It will be noted that the name of Maxentius
is not mentioned. He is treated as non-existent. There need be no
surprise that nothing is said of Diocletian and Maximian, for they were
ex-Augusti, so to speak, though still bearing the courtesy title. But if
Maxentius had been recognised as one of the “Imperial Brothers” at the
conference of Carnuntum, the omission of his name by Lactantius is
exceedingly strange. From his account we should judge that the policy
decided upon at Carnuntum was to restore the fourfold system of
Diocletian in the persons of Galerius, Licinius, Maximin, and
Constantine, taking precedence in the order named. When Maximin refused
to be content with his old title of Cæsar or to accept the new one of
Son of Augustus, and insisted on being acknowledged as Augustus, the
system broke down anew. At the beginning of 308, there were no fewer
than seven who bore the name of Augustus. And of these Diocletian alone
had outlived his ambitions.

Maximian returned to Gaul, where he received cordial welcome from
Constantine. He had resigned his pretensions not—as says Lactantius,
cognisant as ever of the secret motives of his enemies—that he might the
more easily deceive Constantine, but because it had been so decided at
Carnuntum. He was thus a private citizen once more; he had neither army,
nor official status, nothing beyond the prestige attaching to one who
had, so to speak, “passed the chair.” There can be little doubt that his
second resignation was as reluctant as the first, but as he was at open
enmity with his son, Maxentius, he had only Constantine to look to for
protection and the means of livelihood. And Constantine, according to
the author of the Seventh Panegyric, gave him all the honours due to his
exalted rank. He assigned to him the place of honour on his right hand;
put at his disposal the stables of the palace; and ordered his servants
to pay to Maximian the same deference that they paid to himself. The
orator declares that the gossip of the day spoke of Constantine as
wearing the robe of office, while Maximian wielded its powers. Evidently
Constantine had no fear that Maximian would play him false.

His confidence, however, soon received a rude shock. The Franks were
restless and threatened invasion. Constantine marched north with his
army, leaving Maximian at Arles. He did not take his entire forces with
him, for a considerable number remained in the south of Gaul—no doubt to
guard the frontier against danger from Maxentius, though Lactantius
explains it otherwise. Maximian waited till sufficient time had elapsed
for Constantine to be well across the Rhine, and then began to spread
rumours of his having been defeated and slain in battle. For the third
time, therefore, he assumed the purple, seized the State treasuries, and
took command of the legions, offering them a large donative, and
appealing to their old loyalty. The usurpation was entirely successful
for the moment, but when Constantine heard of the treachery he hurried
back, leaving the affairs of the frontier to settle themselves.

Constantine knew the military value of mobility, and his soldiers
eagerly made his quarrel their own. There is an amusing passage in the
Seventh Panegyric[34] in which the orator says that the troops shewed
their devotion by refusing the offer of special travelling-money
(_viatica_) on the ground that it would hamper them on the march. Their
generous pay, they said, was more than sufficient, though no Roman army
before this time had ever been known to refuse money. Then he describes
how they marched from the Rhine to the Aar without rest, yet with
unwearied bodies; how at Chalons (Cabillonum) they were placed on board
river boats, but found the current too sluggish for their impetuous
eagerness to come to conclusions with the traitor, and cried out that
they were standing still; and how, even when they entered the rapid
current of the Rhone, its pace scarcely satisfied their ardour. Such,
according to the Court rhetorician, was the enthusiasm of the soldiers
for their young leader. When, at length, Arles was reached, it was found
that Maximian had fled to Marseilles and had shut himself up within that
strongly fortified town. His power had crumbled away. The legions, which
had sworn allegiance to him, withdrew it again as soon as they found
that he had lied to them of Constantine’s death; even the soldiers he
had with him in Marseilles only waited for the appearance of Constantine
before the walls to open the gates. The picture which Lactantius draws
of Constantine reproaching Maximian for his ingratitude while the
latter—from the summit of the wall—heaps curses on his head (_ingerebat
maledicta de muris_), or the companion picture of the anonymous
rhetorician, who shews us the scaling ladders falling short of the top
of the battlements and the devoted soldiers climbing up on their
comrades’ backs, are vivid but unconvincing. What emerges from their
doubtful narratives is that Marseilles was captured without a siege, and
that Maximian fell into the hands of his justly angry son-in-law, who
stripped him of his titles but vouchsafed to him his life.

-----

Footnote 34:

  C. 18.

-----

Was Maximian in league with his son, Maxentius, in this usurpation? Had
they made up their old quarrel in order to turn their united weapons
against Constantine? There were those who thought so at the time, as
Lactantius says,[35] the theory being that the old man only pretended
violent enmity towards his son in order to carry out his treacherous
designs against Constantine and the other Emperors.

-----

Footnote 35:

  _De Mort. Persec._, c. 43.

-----

Lactantius himself denies this supposition bluntly (_Sed id falsum
fuit_) and then goes on to say[36] that Maximian’s real motive was to
get rid both of Maxentius and the rest, and restore Diocletian and
himself to power. Even for Lactantius, this is an extraordinarily wild
theory. It runs counter to all that we know of Diocletian’s wishes
during his retirement, and it speaks of the “extinction of Maxentius and
the rest” as though it only needed an order to a centurion and the deed
was done. It is much more probable that Maximian had actually re-entered
into negotiations with Maxentius and had offered, as the price of
reconciliation, the support of the legions which he had treacherously
won from Constantine. The impetuous haste with which Constantine flew
back from the Rhine indicates that the crisis was one of extreme
gravity.

-----

Footnote 36:

  _Nam id propositi habebat, ut et filio et ceteris extinctis se ac
  Diocletianum restitueret in regnum._

-----

Maximian did not long survive his degradation. That he died a violent
death is certain; the circumstances attending it are in doubt.
Lactantius gives a minute narrative which would carry greater conviction
if the details had not been so manifestly borrowed from the chronicles
of the East. He says that Maximian, tiring of his humiliating position,
engaged in new plots against Constantine, and tempted Fausta, his
daughter, to betray her husband by the promise of a worthier spouse. Her
part in the conspiracy was to secure the removal of the guards from
Constantine’s sleeping apartment. Fausta laid the whole scheme before
her husband, who ordered one of his eunuchs to sleep in the royal
chamber. Maximian, rising in the dead of night, told the sentries that
he had dreamed an important dream which he wished at once to communicate
to his son-in-law and thus gained entrance to the room. Drawing his
sword, he cut off the eunuch’s head and rushed out boasting that he had
slain Constantine—only to be confronted by Constantine himself at the
head of a troop of armed men. The corpse was brought out; the
self-convicted murderer stood “speechless as Marpesian flint.”
Constantine upbraided him with his treachery, gave him permission to
choose his own mode of dying, and Maximian hanged himself, “drawing”—as
Virgil had said—“from the lofty beam the noose of shameful death.”

[Illustration:

  FRAGMENT OF 4TH CENTURY EGYPTIAN POTTERY BOWL
  SHOWING AN EARLY PORTRAIT OF CHRIST, WITH BUSTS OF THE EMPEROR
    CONSTANTINE
  AND THE EMPRESS FAUSTA. (FROM THE BRITISH MUSEUM.)
]

Such is the story of Lactantius; it could scarcely be more
circumstantial. But if this had been the manner of Maximian’s death, it
is hardly possible that the other historians would have passed it by in
silence. Eusebius, in his _Ecclesiastical History_, simply says that
Maximian strangled himself; Aurelius Victor that he justly perished
(_jure perierat_). The author of the Seventh Panegyric declares that,
though Constantine offered him his life, Maximian deemed himself
unworthy of the boon and committed suicide.[37] Eutropius, evidently
borrowing from Lactantius, remarks that Maximian paid the penalty for
his crimes. There is little doubt, therefore, that Constantine ordered
his execution and gave him choice of death, just as Maxentius had given
similar choice to Severus. Officially it would be announced that
Maximian had committed suicide. At the time, public opinion was shocked
by the manner of his death, though it was generally conceded that his
life was justly forfeit.

-----

Footnote 37:

  _Nec se dignum vita judicavit, cum per te liceret ut viveret._—_Pan.
  Vet._, vii., 20.

-----

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER V
                         THE INVASION OF ITALY


The tragic end of his old colleague must have raised many disquieting
thoughts in the mind of Diocletian, already beginning to be anxious lest
his successors should think that he was living too long. While Galerius
flourished he was sure of a protector, but Galerius died in 311. In the
eighteenth year of his rule he had been stricken with an incurable and
loathsome malady, into the details of which Lactantius enters with a
morbid but lively enjoyment, affecting to see in the torture of the
dying Emperor the visitation of an angry Providence. He describes
minutely the progress of the cancer and the “appalling odour of the
festering wound which spread not only through the palace but through the
city.” He shews us the unhappy patient raising piercing cries and
calling for mercy from the God of the Christians whom he had persecuted,
vowing under the stress of physical anguish that he would make
reparation; and, finally, when at the very point of death (_jam
deficiens_), dictating the edict which stayed the persecution and gave
the Christians full liberty to worship in their own way. It will be more
convenient to discuss in another place this remarkable document, the
forerunner, so to speak, of the famous Edict of Milan. It was
promulgated at Nicomedia on the thirtieth of April, 311, and a few days
later Galerius’s torments were mercifully ended by death.

The death of Galerius gave another blow to the already tottering system
of Diocletian. It had been his intention to retire, as Diocletian had
done, at the end of his twentieth year of sovereignty, and make way for
a younger man, and there can be little doubt that he would have been as
good as his word. Galerius has not received fair treatment at the hands
of posterity. Lactantius, his bitter enemy, describes him as a violent
ruffian and a hectoring bully, an object of terror and fear to all
around him in word, deed, and aspect. Lactantius belittles the
importance of his victory over Narses, the Persian King, by saying that
the Persian army marched encumbered with baggage and that victory was
easily won. He makes Galerius the leading spirit of the Persecution;
represents him as having goaded Diocletian into signing the fatal
edicts; accuses him of having fired the palace at Nicomedia in order to
work on the terrors of his chief; charges him with having invented new
and horrible tortures; and declares that he never dined or supped
without whetting his appetite with the sight of human blood. No one
would gather from Lactantius that Galerius was a fine soldier, a
hard-working and capable Emperor, and a loyal successor to a great
political chief. Eutropius does him no more than justice when he
describes him as a man of high principle and a consummate general.[38]
Aurelius Victor fills in the light and shade. Galerius was, he says, a
Prince worthy of all praise; just if unpolished and untutored; of
handsome presence; and an accomplished and fortunate general. He had
risen from the ranks; in his young days he had been a herd boy, and the
name of _Armentarius_ clung to him through life. This rough and ready
Pannonian spent too energetic and busy a career to have time for
culture. He came from a province where, in the forceful phrase of one of
the Panegyrists, “life was all hard knocks and fighting.”[39]

-----

Footnote 38:

  _Vir et probe moratus et egregius re militari._

Footnote 39:

  _In quibus omnis vita militia est._

-----

Galerius had already nominated Licinius as his successor, but Licinius
was far away in Pannonia and did not cross over at once into Asia to
take command of Galerius’s army—no doubt because it was not safe for him
to leave his post. In the meantime, Maximin Daza, the Augustus of Syria
and Egypt, had been preparing to march on Nicomedia as soon as Galerius
breathed his last, for he claimed, as we have seen, that by seniority of
rule he had a better right than Licinius to the title of senior
Augustus. While, therefore, Licinius remained in Europe, Maximin Daza
advanced from Syria across the Taurus and entered Bithynia, where, to
curry favour with the people, he abolished the census. It was expected
that the two Emperors would fight out their quarrel, but an
accommodation was arrived at, and they agreed that the Hellespont should
form the boundary between them. Maximin, by his promptitude, had thus
materially increased his sovereignty, and, at the beginning of 312, the
eastern half of the Empire was divided between Licinius and Maximin
Daza, while Constantine ruled in Great Britain, Spain, and Gaul, and
Maxentius was master of Italy and Africa.

Whether or not his position had been recognised by the other Emperors at
the conference of Carnuntum, Maxentius had remained in undisturbed
possession of Italy since the hurried retreat of the invading army of
Galerius. In Africa, indeed, a general named Alexander, who, according
to Zosimus, was a Phrygian by descent, and timid and advanced in years,
raised the standard of revolt. Maxentius commissioned one of his
lieutenants to attack the usurper and Alexander was captured and
strangled. There would have been nothing to distinguish this
insurrection from any other, had it not been for the ruthless severity
with which the African cities were treated by the conqueror. Carthage
and Cirta were pillaged and sacked; the countryside was laid desolate;
many of the leading citizens were executed; still more were reduced to
beggary. The ruin of Africa was so complete that it excited against
Maxentius the public opinion of the Roman world. He had begun his reign,
as will be remembered, as the special champion of the Prætorians and of
the privileges of Rome, but he soon lost his early popularity, and
rapidly developed into a cruel and bloodthirsty tyrant. His profligacy
was shameless and excessive, even for those licentious times. Eusebius
tells the story of how Sophronia, the Christian wife of the city
præfect, stabbed herself in order to escape his embraces, when the
imperial messengers came to summon her to the palace.

If Maxentius had been accused of all the vices only on the authority of
the Christian authors and the official panegyrists of Constantine, their
statements might have been received with some suspicion—for a fallen
Roman Emperor had no friends. Zosimus, however, is almost as severe upon
him as Lactantius, and Julian, in the _Banquet of the Cæsars_, excludes
him from the feast as one utterly unworthy of a place in honourable
society. According to Aurelius Victor, he was the first to start the
practice of exacting from the senators large sums of money in the guise
of free gifts (_munerum specie_) on the flimsiest pretexts of public
necessity, or as payment for the bestowal of office or civil
distinction. Moreover, knowing that, sooner or later, he would find
himself at war with one or other of his brother Augusti, Maxentius
amassed great stores of corn and wealth and took no heed of a morrow
which he knew that he might not live to witness. He despoiled the
temples,—says the author of the Ninth Panegyric,—butchered the Senate,
and starved the people of Rome. The Praetorians—who had placed and kept
him on the throne—ruled the city. Zosimus tells the curious story of
how, in the course of a great fire in Rome, the Temple of Fortune was
burned down and one of the soldiers looking on spoke blasphemous and
disrespectful words of the goddess. Immediately the mob attacked him.
His comrades went to his assistance and a serious riot ensued, during
which the Prætorians would have massacred the citizens had they not been
with difficulty restrained. All the authorities, indeed, agree that a
perfect reign of terror prevailed at Rome after Maxentius’s victory over
Alexander in Africa, while Maxentius himself is depicted as a second
Commodus or Nero.

One of the most vivid pictures of the tyrant is given in the Panegyric
already quoted. The orator speaks of Maxentius as a “stupid and
worthless wild-beast” (_stultumet nequam animal_) skulking for ever
within the walls of the palace and not daring to leave the precincts.
Fancy, he exclaims, an indoor Emperor, who considers that he has made a
journey and achieved an expedition if he has so much as visited the
Gardens of Sallust! Whenever he addressed his soldiers, he would boast
that, though he had colleagues in the Empire, he alone was the real
Emperor; for he ruled while they kept the frontiers safe and did his
fighting for him. And then he would dismiss them with the three words:
“_Fruimini! Dissipate! Prodigite!_” Such an invitation to drunkenness,
riot, and debauch would not be unwelcome to the swaggering Prætorians
and to the numerous bands of mercenaries which Maxentius had collected
from all parts of the world.

We ought not, perhaps, to take this scathing invective quite literally.
For all his vices, Maxentius was probably not quite the hopeless
debauchee he is represented to have been. It is at least worth remark
that it was this Emperor, of whom no one has a charitable word to say,
who restored to the Christians at Rome the church buildings and property
which had been confiscated to the State by the edicts of Diocletian and
Galerius. Neither Eusebius nor Lactantius mentions this, but the fact is
clear from a passage in St. Augustine, who says that the first act of
the Roman Christians on regaining possession of their cemetery was to
bring back the body of Bishop Eusebius, who had died in exile in Sicily.
Nor did Maxentius’s political attitude towards the other Augusti betray
indications of incompetence or want of will. He was ambitious—a trait
common to most Roman Emperors and certainly shared by all his
colleagues. There was no cohesion among the four Augusti; there was no
one much superior to the others in influence and prestige. Constantine
and Maxentius feared and suspected each other in the West, just as
Licinius and Maximin Daza feared and suspected each other in the East.
When the two latter agreed that the Hellespont should divide their
territories, Licinius, who had lost Asia Minor by the bargain, made
overtures of alliance to Constantine. It was arranged that Licinius
should marry Constantia, the sister of the Augustus of Gaul. Naturally,
therefore, Maximin Daza turned towards Maxentius and sent envoys asking
for alliance and friendship. Lactantius adds the curious phrase that
Maximin’s letter was couched in a tone of familiarity[40] and says that
Maxentius was as eager to accept as Maximin had been to offer. He hailed
it, we are told, as a god-sent help, for he had already declared war
against Constantine on the pretext of avenging his father’s murder.

-----

Footnote 40:

  _Scribit etiam familiariter._

-----

The outbreak of this war, which was fraught with such momentous
consequences to the whole course of civilisation, found the Empire
strangely divided. The Emperor of Italy and Africa was allied with the
Emperor of Egypt, Syria, and Asia Minor, against the rulers of the
armies of the Danube and the Rhine. We shall see that the alliance
was—at any rate, in result—defensive rather than offensive. Licinius and
Maximin never moved; they simply neutralised one another, though the
advantage clearly lay with Constantine and Licinius, for Maxentius was
absolutely isolated, so far as receiving help on the landward side was
concerned. We need not look far to find the real cause of quarrel
between Constantine and Maxentius, whatever pretexts were assigned.
Maxentius would never have risked his Empire for the sake of a father
whom he detested; nor would Constantine have jeopardised his throne in
order to avenge an insult. Each aspired to rule over the entire West;
neither would acquiesce in the pretensions of the other. Both had been
actively preparing for a struggle which became inevitable when neither
took any radical steps to avoid it. We have already seen that
Constantine kept the larger part of the army of Gaul stationed in the
south near Arelate and Lugdunum, in order to watch the Alpine passes; we
shall find that Maxentius had also posted his main armies in the north
of Italy from Susa on the one side, where he was threatened by
Constantine, to Venice on the other, where he was on guard against
Licinius. There is a curious reference in one of the authorities to a
plan formed by Maxentius of invading Gaul through Rhaetia,—no doubt
because Constantine had made the Alpine passes practically
unassailable,—while Lactantius tells us that he had drawn every
available man from Africa to swell his armies in Italy.

Constantine acted with the extreme rapidity for which he was already
famous. He hurried his army down from the Rhine, and was through the
passes and attacking the walled city of Susa before Maxentius had
certain knowledge of his movements. That he was embarking on an
exceedingly hazardous expedition seems to have been recognised by
himself and his captains. The author of the Ninth Panegyric says quite
bluntly that his principal officers not only muttered their fears in
secret, but expressed them openly,[41] and adds that his councillors and
haruspices warned him to desist. A similar campaign had cost Severus his
life and had been found too hazardous even by Galerius. Superiority of
numbers lay not with him, but with his rival. Constantine was gravely
handicapped by the fact that he had to safeguard the Rhine behind him
against the Germanic tribes, which he knew would seize the first
opportunity to pass the river. Zosimus gives a detailed account[42] of
the numbers which the rivals placed in the field. Maxentius, he says,
had 170,000 foot and 18,000 horse under his command, including 80,000
levies from Rome and Italy, and 40,000 from Carthage and Africa.
Constantine, on the other hand, even after vigorous recruiting in
Britain and Gaul, could only muster 90,000 foot and 8000 horse. The
author of the Ninth Panegyric, in a casual phrase, says that Constantine
could hardly employ a fourth of his Gallic army against the 100,000 men
in the ranks of Maxentius, on account of the dangers of the Rhine.
Ancient authorities, however, are never trustworthy where numbers are
concerned; we only know that Maxentius had by far the larger force, and
that Constantine’s army of invasion was probably under 40,000 strong.
Whether the numerical supremacy of the former was not counterbalanced by
the necessity under which Maxentius laboured of guarding against
Licinius, is a question to which the historians have paid no heed.

-----

Footnote 41:

  _Non solum tacite mussantibus sed eteiam aperte timentibus._—_Pan.
  Vet._, ix., 2.

Footnote 42:

  Zosimus, ii., 15.

-----

Marching along the chief military highroad from Lugdunum to Italy, which
crossed the Alps at Mont Cenis, Constantine suddenly appeared before the
walls of Susa, a strongly garrisoned post, and took it by storm,
escalading the walls and burning the gates. The town caught fire;
Constantine set his soldiers to put out the flames, a more difficult
task, says Nazarius, than had been the actual assault. From Susa the
victor advanced to Turin, which opened its gates to him after the
cavalry of Maxentius had been routed in the plains. These were troops
clad in ponderous but cleverly jointed armour, and the weight of their
onslaught was calculated to crush either horse or foot upon which it was
directed. But Constantine disposed his forces so as to avoid their
charge and render their weight useless, and when these horsemen fled for
shelter to Turin they found the gates closed against them and perished
almost to a man. Milan, by far the most important city in the
Transpadane region, next received Constantine, who entered amid the
plaudits of the citizens, and charmed the eyes of the Milanese ladies,
says the Panegyrist, without causing them anxieties for their virtue.
Milan, indeed, welcomed him with open arms; other cities sent
deputations similar to the one which, according to the epitomist
Zonaras, had already reached him from Rome itself, praying him to come
as its liberator. It seemed, indeed, that he had already won not only
the Transpadane region, but Rome itself.[43]

-----

Footnote 43:

  _Pan. Vet._, ix., 7.

-----

Constantine, however, had still to meet and overthrow the chief armies
of Maxentius in the north of Italy. These were under the command of
Ruricius Pompeianus, a general as stubborn as he was loyal, and of
well-tried capacity. Pompeianus held Verona in force. He had thrown out
a large body of cavalry towards Brescia to reconnoitre and check
Constantine’s advance, but these were routed with some slaughter and
retired in confusion. If we may interpret the presence of Pompeianus at
Verona as indicating that Maxentius had feared attack by Licinius more
than by Constantine, this would explain the comparative absence of
troops in Lombardy and the concentration in Venetia, though it is
strange that we do not hear of Licinius taking any steps to assist his
ally. Verona was a strongly fortified city resting upon the Adige, which
encircled its walls for three-quarters of their circumference.
Constantine managed to effect a crossing at some distance from the city
and laid siege in regular fashion. Pompeianus tried several ineffectual
sorties, and then, secretly escaping through the lines, he brought up
the rest of his army to offer pitched battle or compel Constantine to
raise the siege. A fierce engagement followed. We are told[44] that
Constantine had drawn up his men in double lines, when, noticing that
the enemy outnumbered him and threatened to overlap either flank, he
ordered his troops to extend and present a wider front. He distinguished
himself that day by pressing into the thickest of the fight, “like a
mountain torrent in spate that tears away by their roots the trees on
its banks and rolls down rocks and stones.” The orator depicts for us
the scene as Constantine’s lieutenants and captains receive him on his
return from the fray, panting with his exertion and with blood dripping
from his hands. With tears in their eyes, they chide him for his
rashness in imperilling the hopes of the world. “It does not beseem an
Emperor,” they say, “to strike down an enemy with his own sword. It does
not become him to sweat with the toil of battle.[45]” In simpler
language, Constantine fought bravely at the head of his men and won the
day. Pompeianus was slain; Verona opened her gates, and so many
prisoners fell into the hands of the conqueror that Constantine made his
armourers forge chains and manacles from the iron of the captives’
swords. In accordance with his usual policy, he conciliated the favour
of those whom he had defeated by sparing the city from pillage, and
shewed an equal clemency to Aquileia and the other cities of Venetia,
all of which speedily submitted on the capitulation of Verona.

-----

Footnote 44:

  _Pan. Vet._, ix., 9.

Footnote 45:

  _Immo non decet laborare._

-----

With the entire north of Italy thus wrested from Maxentius, Constantine
could turn his face towards Rome. He encountered no opposition on the
march. Maxentius did not even contest the passage of the Apennines; the
Umbrian passes were left open; and if the historians are to be
trusted—and they speak with unanimity on the point—the Italian Emperor
simply waited for his doom to come upon him, as Nero had done, and made
no really serious effort to defend his throne. This slave in the purple
(_vernula purpuratus_), as the author of the Ninth Panegyric calls him,
cowered trembling in his palace, paralysed with fear because he had been
deserted by the Divine Intelligence and the Eternal Majesty of Rome,
which had transferred themselves from the tyrant to the side of his
rival. We are told, indeed, that a few days before the appearance of
Constantine, Maxentius quitted the palace with his wife and son and took
up his abode in a private house, not being able to endure the terrible
dreams that came to him by night and the spectres of the victims which
haunted his crime-stained halls. Constantine moved swiftly down from the
north of Italy along the Flaminian Way, and in less than two months
after the fall of Verona, he was at Saxa Rubra, only nine miles from
Rome, with an army eager for battle and confident of victory. There he
found the troops of Maxentius drawn up in battle array, but posted in a
position which none but a fool or a madman would have selected. The
probabilities are that Maxentius could not trust the citizens of Rome
and therefore dared not stand a siege within the ramparts of Aurelian.
Then, having decided to offer battle, he allowed his army to cross the
Tiber and take up ground whence, if defeated, their only roads of escape
lay over the narrow Milvian Bridge and a flimsy bridge of boats, one
probably on either flank.

It is said that Maxentius had not intended to be present in person when
the issue was decided. He was holding festival within the city,
celebrating his birthday with the usual games and pretending that the
proximity of Constantine caused him no alarm. The populace began to
taunt him with cowardice, and uttered the ominous shout that Constantine
was invincible. Maxentius’s fears grew as the clamour swelled in volume.
He hurriedly called for the Sibylline Books and ordered them to be
consulted. These gave answer that on that very day the enemy of the
Romans should perish—a characteristically safe reply. Such ambiguity of
diction had usually portended the death of the consulting Prince, but
Lactantius says that the hopes with which the words inspired Maxentius
led him to put on his armour and ride out of Rome.

[Illustration:

  THE BATTLE OF THE MILVIAN BRIDGE, BY RAPHAEL.
  IN THE VATICAN. PHOTOGRAPH BY ALINARI.
]

The issue was decided at the first encounter. Constantine charged at the
head of his Gallic horse—now accustomed to and certain of victory—into
the cavalry of Maxentius, which broke and ran in disorder from the
field. Only the Prætorians made a gallant and stubborn resistance and
fell where they had stood, knowing that it was they who had raised
Maxentius to the throne and that their destruction was involved in his.
While these fought valiantly with the courage of despair, their comrades
were crowding in panic towards the already choked bridges. At the
Milvian Bridge the passage was jammed, and the pursuers wrought great
execution. The pontoon bridge collapsed, owing to the treachery of those
who had cut or loosened its supports. All the reports agree that there
was a sickening slaughter, and that hundreds were drowned in the Tiber
in their vain effort to escape. Among the victims was Maxentius himself.
He was either thrust into the river by the press of frenzied fugitives
or was drowned in trying to scale the high bank on the opposite shore,
when weighed down by his heavy armour. His corpse was recovered later
from the stream, which the Panegyrists hailed in ecstatic terms as the
co-saviour of Rome with Constantine and the partner of his triumph.[46]

-----

Footnote 46:

  _Pan. Vet._, ix., 18.

-----

The victor entered Rome. He had won the prize which he sought—the
mastery of the West—and, like scores of Roman conquerors before him, he
marched through the famous streets. His triumphal procession was graced,
says Nazarius, not by captive chiefs or barbarians in chains, but by
senators who now tasted the joy of freedom again, and by consulars whose
prison doors had been opened by Constantine’s victory—in a word, by a
Free Rome.[47] Only the head of Maxentius, whose features still wore the
savage, threatening look which even death itself had not been able to
obliterate, was carried on the point of a spear behind Constantine amid
the jeers and insults of the crowd. Another Panegyrist gives us a very
lively picture of the throngs as they waited for the Emperor to pass,
describing how they crowded at the rear of the procession and swept up
to the palace, almost venturing to cross the sacred threshold itself,
and how, when Constantine appeared in the streets on the succeeding
days, they sought to unhorse his carriage and draw it along with their
hands. One of the conqueror’s first acts was to extirpate the family of
his fallen rival. Maxentius’s elder son, Romulus, who for a short time
had borne the name of Cæsar, was already dead; the younger son, and
probably the wife too, were now quietly removed. There were other
victims, who had committed themselves too deeply to Maxentius’ fortunes
to escape. Rome, says Nazarius,[48] was reconstituted afresh on a
lasting basis by the complete destruction of those who might have given
trouble. But still the victims were comparatively few, so few, in the
estimation of public opinion, that the victory was regarded as a
bloodless one, and Constantine’s clemency was the theme and admiration
of all. When the people clamoured for more victims—doubtless the most
hated instruments of Maxentius’s tyranny—and when the informer pressed
forward to offer his deadly services, Constantine refused to listen. He
was resolved to let bygones be bygones. The laws of the period
immediately succeeding his victory, as they appear in the Theodosian
Code, amply confirm what might otherwise be the suspect eulogies of the
Panegyrists. A general act of amnesty was passed, and the ghastly head
of Maxentius was sent to Africa to allay the terrors of the population
and convince them that their oppressor would trouble them no more.
There, it is to be supposed, it found a final burial-place.

-----

Footnote 47:

  _Pan. Vet._, x., 31.

Footnote 48:

  _Ibid._, x., 6.

-----

Another early act of Constantine was to disband the Prætorians, thus
carrying out the intention and decrees of Galerius. The survivors of
these long-famous regiments were marched out of Rome away from the
Circus, the Theatre of Pompeius, and the Baths, and were set to do their
share in the guarding of the Rhine and the Danube. Whether they bore the
change as voluntarily as the Panegyrist suggests[49] is doubtful, and we
may question whether they so soon forgot in their rude cantonments the
fleshpots and “_deliciæ_” of the capital. But the expulsion was final.
The Prætorians ceased to exist. Rome may have been glad to see the empty
barracks, for the Prætorians had been hated and feared. But the vacant
quarters also spoke eloquently of the fact that Rome was no longer the
mistress of the world. The “_domina gentium_,” the “_regina terrarum_”
without her Prætorians, was a thing unthinkable.

-----

Footnote 49:

  _Pan. Vet._, ix., 21.

-----

Constantine only stayed two months in Rome, but in that short time, says
Nazarius, he cured all the maladies which the six years’ savage tyranny
of Maxentius had brought upon the city. He restored to their confiscated
estates all who had been exiled or deprived of their property during the
recent reign of terror. He shewed himself easy of approach; his ears
were the most patient of listeners; he charmed all by his kindliness,
dignity, and good humour. To the Senate he shewed unwonted deference.
Diocletian, during his solitary visit to Rome just prior to his
retirement, had treated the senators with brusqueness, and hardly
concealed his contempt for their mouldy dignities. Constantine preferred
to conciliate them. According to Nazarius, he invested with senatorial
rank a number of representative provincials, so that the Senate once
more became a dignified body in reality as well as in name, now that it
consisted of the flower of the whole world.[50] Probably this signifies
little more than that Constantine filled up the vacancies with
respectable nominees, spoke the Senate fair, and swore to maintain its
ancient rights and privileges. The Emperor certainly entertained no such
quixotic idea as that of giving the Senate a vestige of real governing
power or a share in the administration of the Empire. In return for his
consideration, the Senate bestowed upon him the title of Senior
Augustus, and a golden statue, adorned, according to the Ninth
Panegyrist (c. 25), with the attributes of a god, while all Italy
subscribed for the shield and the crown.

-----

Footnote 50:

  _Cum ex totius orbis flore constaret._

-----

[Illustration:

  THE ARCH OF CONSTANTINE AT ROME.
  PHOTOGRAPH BY ALINARI.
]

The Senate also instituted games and festivals in honour of
Constantine’s victory, and voted him the triumphal arch which still
survives as one of the most imposing ruins of Imperial Rome and a
lasting monument to the outrageous vandalism which stripped the Arch of
Titus of its sculptures to grace the memorial of his successor. Under
the central arch on the one side is the dedication, “To the Liberator of
the City,” on the other, “To the Founder of Our Repose” (_Fundatori
quietis_). Above stands the famous inscription[51] in which the Senate
and people of Rome dedicate this triumphal arch to Constantine “because,
at the suggestion of the divinity (_instinctu divinitatis_), and at the
prompting of his own magnanimity, he and his army had vindicated the
Republic by striking down the tyrant and all his satellites at a single
blow.” “At the suggestion of the divinity!” The words lead us naturally
to discuss the conversion of Constantine and the Vision of the Cross.

-----

Footnote 51:

  The inscription on the Arch of Constantine runs as follows:

                    “_Imp. Cæs. Fl. Constantino Maximo
                        P. F. Augusto S. P. Q. R.
                    Quod instinctu divinitatis mentis
                       Magnitudine cum exercitu suo
                     Tam de tyranno quam de omni ejus
                       Factione uno tempore justis
                       Rempublicam ultus est armis
                   Arcum triumphis insignem dicavit._”

-----


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER VI
                THE VISION OF THE CROSS AND THE EDICT OF
                                 MILAN


It was during the course of the successful invasion of Italy, which
culminated in the battle of the Milvian Bridge and the capture of Rome,
that there took place—or was said to have taken place—the famous vision
of the cross, surrounded by the words, “Conquer by This,” which
accompanied the triumph of Constantine’s arms. There are two main
authorities for the legend, Eusebius and Lactantius, both, of course,
Christians and uncompromising champions of Constantine, with whom they
were in close personal contact. A third, though he makes no mention of
the cross, is Nazarius, the author of the Tenth Panegyric. The
variations which subsequent writers introduce into the story relate
merely to details, or are obvious embroideries upon an original legend,
such, for example, as the statement of Philostorgius that the words of
promise around the cross were written in stars. We need not trouble,
therefore, with the much later versions of Sozomen, Socrates, Gregory of
Nazianzen, and Nicephorus; it will be enough to study the more or less
contemporary statements of Eusebius, Lactantius, and Nazarius. And of
these by far the fullest and most important is that of Eusebius, Bishop
of Cæsarea, who explicitly declares that he is repeating the story as it
was told to him by Constantine himself.

Eusebius shews us the Emperor of Gaul anxiously debating within his own
mind whether his forces were equal to the dangerous enterprise upon
which he had embarked. Maxentius had a formidable army. He had also
laboured to bring over to his side the powers of heaven and hell.
Constantine’s information from Rome apprised him that Maxentius was
assiduously employing all the black arts of magic and wizardry to gain
the favour of the gods. And Constantine grew uneasy and apprehensive,
for no one then disbelieved in the efficacy of magic, and he considered
whether he might not counterbalance this undue advantage which Maxentius
was obtaining by securing the protecting services of some equally potent
deity. Such is the only possible meaning of Eusebius’s words, ἐννοεῖ
δῆτα ὁποῖον δέοι θέον ἐπιγράψασθαι βοηθὸν—words which seem strange in
the twentieth century, but were natural enough in the fourth. “He
thought in his own mind what sort of god he ought to secure as ally.”
And then, says his biographer, the idea occurred to him that though his
predecessors in the purple had believed in a multiplicity of gods, the
great majority of them had perished miserably. The gods, at whose altars
they had offered rich sacrifice and plenteous libation, had deserted
them in their hour of trouble, and had looked on unmoved while they and
their families were exterminated from off the face of the earth, leaving
scarcely so much as a name or a recollection behind them. The gods had
cheated them and lured them to their doom with suave promises of
treacherous oracles. Whereas, on the other hand, his father,
Constantius, had believed in but one god, and had marvellously prospered
throughout his life, helped and protected by this single deity who had
showered every blessing upon his head. From such a contrast, what other
deduction could be drawn than that the god of Constantius was the deity
for Constantius’s son to honour? Constantine resolved that it would be
folly to waste time or thought upon deities who were of no account (περὶ
τούς μηδὲν ὄντας θεοὺς). He would worship no other god than the god of
his father.

Such, according to Eusebius, is the first phase of the Emperor’s
conversion, a conviction not of sin, but of the folly of worshipping
gods who cannot or will not do anything for their votaries. But this god
of his father, this single unnamed divinity, who was it? Was it one of
the gods of the Roman Pantheon, Jupiter, or Apollo, or Hercules, whose
special protection Constantine had claimed for himself, as Augustus had
claimed that of Apollo, and Diocletian that of Jupiter? Or was it the
vague spirit of deity itself, the τὸ θειον of the Greek philosophers,
the _divinitas_ of the cultured Roman, whose delicacy was offended by
the grossness of the exceedingly human passions of the Roman gods and
goddesses? Obviously, it must be the latter, and Eusebius tells us that
Constantine offered up a prayer to this god of his father, beseeching
him, “to declare himself who he was,” and to stretch forth his right
hand to help. “To declare himself who he was!” (φῆναι αὐτῷ ἑαυτόν ὅστις
εἴη). That had ever been the stumbling-block in the way of the
acceptance by the masses of the immaterial principles propounded by the
philosophers. Constantine must have a god with a name, and he must have
a sign from heaven in visible proof. Many have asked for such a sign
just as importunately (λιπαρῶς ἱκετεύοντι) as Constantine, but without
success. To him it was vouchsafed.

[Illustration:

  CONSTANTINE’S VISION OF THE CROSS, BY RAPHAEL.
  IN THE VATICAN. PHOTOGRAPH BY ALINARI.
]

The answer came one afternoon, when the sun had just passed its zenith
and was beginning to decline. Lifting his eyes, the Emperor saw in the
heavens just above the sun the figure of a cross, a cross of radiant
light, and attached to it was the inscription, “Conquer by This” (τούτῳ
νίκα). Eusebius admits that if any one else had told the story it would
not have been easy to believe it, but it was told to him by the Emperor
himself, who had confirmed his words with a royal oath. How then was it
possible to doubt? Constantine was awe-struck at the vision, which
Eusebius expressly declares was seen also by the entire army. All that
afternoon the Emperor pondered long upon the significance of the words,
and night fell while he was still asking himself what they could mean.
Then, as he slept, Christ appeared to him in a dream, bearing with Him
the sign that had flamed in the sky, and bade the sleeper make a copy of
it and use it as a talisman whenever he gave battle. As soon as dawn
broke, Constantine summoned his friends and told them of the message he
had received. Workers in gold and precious stones were hastily sent for,
and, sitting in the midst of them, Constantine carefully described the
outline of the vision and bade them execute a replica of it in their
most precious materials. This was the famous Labarum, fashioned from a
long gilded spear and a transverse bar. Above was a crown of gold, with
jewels encircling the monogram of Christ, and from the bar depended a
rich purple cloth, heavily embroidered with gold, blazing with jewels,
and bearing the busts of Constantine and his sons. It suggested the
Cross just as much but no more than did the ordinary cavalry standards
of the Roman armies; the sacred monogram alone indicated the supreme
change which had come over the Emperor, who, in answer to his prayer,
had thus found that the single Deity which his father, Constantius, had
worshipped was none other than Christ, the God of the Christians. For
the Emperor, desiring to know more of the Cross and the Christ, summoned
certain Christian teachers in his camp to explain these things more
fully to him, and they told him that “Christ was God, the only begotten
Son of the one true God, and that the vision he had seen was the symbol
of immortality and of the victory which Christ had won over death.”
Such, according to Eusebius, was the conversion of Constantine, and such
was the Emperor’s own account of the circumstances which led up to it.
This was the official story, as it might have appeared in a Roman Court
Circular at the time when Eusebius wrote.

But when did Eusebius write _The Life of Constantine_, from which we
have taken this narrative? Not until Constantine himself was dead, not,
that is to say, until after 337, fully a quarter of a century after the
event described. The date is important. In twenty-five years a story may
be transfigured out of all knowledge through constant repetition by the
narrator, to say nothing of the changes it suffers if it passes in
active circulation from mouth to mouth. Has this been the fate of the
story of the Vision of the Cross? _The Life of Constantine_ was not the
first volume of contemporary history published by Eusebius. He had
already written a _History of the Church_, which he issued to the world
in 326. What, then, had the author to say in that year about this
marvellous vision? Nothing. There is not a word about the flaming cross,
or the coming of Christ to Constantine in a dream, or the fashioning of
the Labarum. All Eusebius says, in his _History_, of the conversion of
Constantine, is that the Emperor “piously called to his aid the God of
Heaven and his son Jesus Christ.” It is a strange silence. If the
heavenly cross had been seen by the whole army; if the current version
of the story had been the same in 326 as it was in 337, it is at least
difficult to understand why Eusebius omitted all mention of an event
which must have been the talk of the whole Roman world and must have
made the heart of every Christian exult. Such manifest signs from Heaven
were scarcely so common in the opening of the fourth century that an
ecclesiastical historian would think any allusion to it unnecessary. The
argument from silence is never absolutely conclusive, but the reticence
of Eusebius in 326 at least warrants a strong suspicion that the legend
had not then crystallised itself into its final shape.

Of even greater importance are the extraordinary discrepancies between
the versions of Eusebius and Lactantius. Lactantius wrote his treatise
_On the Deaths of the Persecutors_ very shortly after the battle of the
Milvian Bridge, and it has a special value, therefore, as containing the
earliest account of the vision. The author, who was the tutor of the
Emperor’s son, Crispus, must have known all there was to be known of the
incident, for he lived in the closest intimacy with the court circle. We
should confidently expect, therefore, that the author who retails
verbatim the conversation of Diocletian and Galerius in the penetralia
of the palace of Nicomedia would be fully aware of what took place in
full view of Constantine’s army.

What then is the version of Lactantius? It is that just before the
battle of the Milvian Bridge, Constantine was warned in a dream to have
the divine sign of the cross (_cœleste signum_) inscribed on the shields
of his soldiers before leading them to the attack. He did as he was
bidden, and the letter ASTERISK, with one of the bars slightly
bent—thus, ASTERISK—to form the sacred monogram, was placed upon his
legionaries’ shields. Such is the legend in its earliest guise. There is
not a word about Constantine’s anxiety and searching of soul. The event
is placed, not at the opening of the campaign, as Eusebius would seem to
suggest though he does not expressly say so, but on the eve of the
decisive battle. There is nothing about the cross flaming in the
afternoon sky, nothing of the inscription, “Conquer by This,” nothing of
the entire army being witness of the portent. Constantine simply has a
dream and is warned (_commonitus_) to place the initial of Christ on his
soldiers’ shields. It is not even said who gave the warning; there is
not a hint that it was Christ Himself—as in the story of Eusebius—who
appeared to Constantine; there is no mention of the Labarum. Obviously,
Lactantius was aware of no triumphant answer to Constantine’s prayer for
a sign. According to him, the Emperor was merely warned in a dream that
victory would reward him if he dedicated his weapons to the honour and
service of Christ.

We come back, therefore, to the official version of Eusebius somewhat
shaken in our belief of its literal accuracy. Let us note, too, the
extreme vagueness of the time and the place where the incident is
reported to have taken place, and remember that one who had dwelt with
Diocletian and Galerius when they signed the edicts of persecution could
not possibly have been ignorant of the principles of Christianity, which
was no longer the religion of an obscure sect. We need not, indeed, find
any difficulty in accepting the first part of the story of Eusebius in
so far as it represents Constantine anxiously enquiring after divine
protection. It has been urged, very shrewdly, that the story would have
been idealised if it had been altogether invented. Constantine was
afraid that he had rashly committed himself and that Maxentius had
already secured the favour of the Roman gods. His objective, too, was
Rome, still regarded with superstitious dread and reverence throughout
the world, and reverenced all the more, no doubt, in proportion as
distance lent enchantment to the view. What then more natural than that
he should take for granted that, if ever the gods of Rome had interfered
in mortal affairs, they would do so now on behalf of Maxentius, who had
been raised to empire as Rome’s champion? Constantine was not one of
those rarer and choicer spirits, who seek truth for its own sake without
regard for material advantage. Conversion in his case did not mean some
sudden or even gradual change permanently altering his outlook upon
life, and refining and transmuting personal character. It merely meant
worshipping at another shrine, entering another temple, reciting another
formula. His ruling motive was ambition. He would worship the god who
should bring victory to his arms. The intensity of his conviction was to
be measured by the extent of his success and by the height to which he
carried his fortunes.

But what of the second part of the story—the vision of the cross flaming
in the sky in full view of Constantine and his army? Even those who
admit miracles into critical history allow that the evidence for this
one is exceedingly inconclusive. We need not doubt that Eusebius related
the story just as it was told to him by Constantine, though the Bishop,
if there were choice of versions, would unhesitatingly accept the one
which contained most of the miraculous and the abnormal. Nor does the
oath which Constantine swore in support of his story add anything to its
credibility. It was his habit to swear an oath when he wished to be
emphatic. Are we, then, to consider that the whole legend was an
invention of the Emperor’s from beginning to end? In this connection it
is important to take into account the narrative of Nazarius, a
rhetorician who delivered a formal panegyric upon Constantine on the
anniversary of his tenth year of rule, and took the opportunity of
reviewing the whole campaign against Maxentius. Nazarius was a pagan;
what then was the pagan version, if any, of the miracle described by
Eusebius and the Emperor? Did the pagans attribute divine assistance to
Constantine throughout this critical campaign? The answer is
unmistakable. They did so most unequivocally. Nazarius tells us[52] that
all Gaul was talking with awe and wonder of the marvels which had taken
place, how the soldiers of Constantine had seen in the sky celestial
armies marching in battle array and had been dazzled by their flashing
shields and glittering armour. Not only had the dull eyes of earthly men
for once availed to look upon heavenly brightness; Constantine’s
soldiery had also heard the shouts of these armies in the sky, “We seek
Constantine; we are marching to the aid of Constantine.”[53] Clearly the
pagan as well as the Christian world insisted upon attributing divine
assistance to Constantine and had its own version of how that succour
came. Nazarius’s explanation was simple. According to him, it was
Constantius Chlorus, the deified Emperor, who was leading up the hosts
of heaven, and such miraculous intervention was due to the supreme
virtue of the father, which had descended to the son.

-----

Footnote 52:

  _Pan. Vet._, x., 14.

Footnote 53:

  _Constantinum petimus: Constantino imus auxilio._

-----

The question at once arises whether this is merely a pagan version of
the Christian legend. Unable to deny the miracle, did the pagans, in
order to rob the Christians of this wonderful testimony to the truth of
their religion, invent the story of Constantius and the heavenly hosts?
Such a theory is absolutely untenable. It leaves out of sight the
all-important fact that public opinion in the fourth century—as indeed
for many centuries both before and after—was not only willing to believe
in supernatural intervention at moments of great crisis, but actually
insisted that there should be such intervention. The greater the crisis,
the more entirely reasonable it was that some deity or deities should
make their influence especially felt and turn the scale to one side or
the other. Every Roman believed that Castor and Pollux had fought for
Rome in the supreme struggle against Hannibal. Julius believed that the
favour of Venus Genetrix, the special patroness of the Julian House, had
helped him to win the battle of Pharsalus. Augustus was just as certain
that Apollo had fought on his side at Philippi and at Actium. It was
easy—and modest—for the winner to believe in his protecting deity’s
strength of arm.

One curious phrase employed by Nazarius is worth noting. It is that in
which he claims that the special interference of Heaven on behalf of
Constantine was not merely an extraordinary and gratifying tribute to
the Emperor’s virtues, but that it was no more than his due. In short,
the crisis was so tremendous that Heaven would have stood convicted of a
strange failure to see events in their just proportion if it had not
done “some great thing,” and wrought some corresponding wonder. Such was
the idea at the back of Nazarius’s mind; we suspect that it was not
wanting in the mind of Eusebius or of Constantine. We may put the matter
paradoxically and say that a miracle in those days was not much
considered unless it was a very great one. People who were accustomed to
see—or to think that they saw—statues sweating blood, and to hear words
proceeding from lips of bronze or marble, and were accustomed to treat
such untoward events merely as portents denoting that something unusual
was about to happen, must have been difficult people to surprise.
Naturally, therefore, legends grew more and more marvellous with
repetition after the event. The oftener a man told such a story the less
appeal it would make to his own wonder, unless he fortified it with some
new incident. But to impress one’s auditors it is above all things
necessary to be impressed oneself. Hence the well-garnished narrative of
Nazarius. The idea of armies marching along the sky was common enough.
Any one can imagine he sees the glint of weapons as the sun strikes the
clouds. But this does not satisfy the professional rhetorician. He bids
us see the proud look in the faces of the heavenly hosts, and
distinguish the cries with which they move to battle. But if Nazarius is
suspect, why not Eusebius and Constantine? Unless, indeed, there is to
be one standard for pagan and another for Christian miracles!

But was there some unusual manifestation in the sky which was the common
basis of the stories of Eusebius and Nazarius? It is not unreasonable to
suppose so. Scientists say that the natural phenomenon known as the
parhelion not infrequently assumes the shape of a cross, and Dean
Stanley, while discussing this possible explanation in his _Lectures on
the Eastern Church_, instanced the extraordinary impression made upon
the minds of the vulgar by the aurora borealis of November, 1848. He
recalled how, throughout France, the people thought they saw in the sky
the letters L. N.—the initials of Louis Napoleon—and took them as a
clear indication from Heaven of how they ought to vote at the impending
Presidential election, and as an omen of the result. That was the
interpretation in France. In Rome—where the people knew and cared
nothing for Louis Napoleon—no one saw the Napoleonic initials. The lurid
gleam in the sky was there thought to be the blood of the murdered
Rossi, which had risen to heaven and was calling for vengeance. In
Oporto, on the other hand, the conscience-stricken populace thought the
fire was coming down from heaven to punish them for their profligacy. If
such varying interpretations of a natural if rare phenomenon were
possible in the middle of the nineteenth century, what interpretation
was not possible in the fourth? The world was profoundly superstitious.
When people believe in manifest signs they usually see them. Some
Polonius, gifted either with better vision or livelier imagination than
his fellows, declares that he can distinguish clear and definite shapes
amid the vague outline of the clouds; the report spreads; the legend
grows. And when legends are found to serve a useful purpose the
authorities lend them countenance, guarantee their accuracy, and even
take to themselves the credit of their authorship. At the outbreak of
the Russo-Japanese war a strange story came from St. Petersburg that the
Russian moujiks were passing on from village to village the legend that
St. George had been seen in the skies leading his hosts to the Far East
against the infidel Japanese. Had Russian victories followed, what
better “proof” of celestial aid could have been desired? But as disaster
ensued, it is to be supposed that St. George remembered midway that he
also had interests in the Anglo-Japanese alliance, and remained strictly
neutral.

But though we may be justly sceptical of the circumstances attending the
conversion of Constantine, there is no room to doubt the conversion
itself. We do not believe that he fought the battle of the Milvian
Bridge as the avowed champion of Christianity, but the probabilities are
that he had made up his mind to become a Christian when he fought it.
The miraculous vision in the heavens, the dream in the quiet of the
night, the appearance of Christ by the bedside of the Emperor—as to
these things we may keep an open mind, but the fashioning of the
Labarum—the sacred standard which was preserved for so many centuries as
the most precious of imperial heirlooms and was seen and described as
late as the ninth century—this was the outward and visible proof of the
change which had come over the Emperor. He had abandoned Apollo for
Christ. The sun-god had been the favourite deity of his youth and early
manhood, as it had been of Augustus Cæsar, the founder of the Empire,
and the originator of the close association between the worship of
Apollo and the worship of the reigning Cæsar. Constantine would not fail
to note that many of the most gracious attributes of Apollo belonged
also to Christ.

He soon manifested the sincerity of his conversion. After a short stay
in Rome, he went north to Milan, where he gave the hand of his sister,
Constantia, to his ally, Licinius. Diocletian was invited, but declined
to make the journey. The two Emperors, no doubt, desired to secure the
prestige of his moral support in their mutual hostility to the Emperor
of the East, and the benefit of his counsel in their deliberations upon
the state of the Empire. But even if Diocletian had been tempted to
leave his cabbages to join in the marriage festivities and the political
conference at Milan, we imagine that he would still have declined if he
had been given any hint of the intentions of Constantine and Licinius
with respect to the great question of religious toleration or
persecution. He might have been candid enough to admit the failure of
his policy, but he would still have shrunk from proclaiming it with his
own lips. For, before the festivities at Milan were interrupted by the
news that Maximin had thrown down the gage of battle, Constantine and
Licinius issued in their joint names the famous Edict of Milan, which
proclaimed for the first time in its absolute entirety the noble
principle of complete religious toleration. Despite their length, it
will be well to give in full the more important clauses. They are found
in the text which has been happily preserved by Lactantius[54] in the
original Latin, while we also have the edict in Greek in the
_Ecclesiastical History_ of Eusebius (x. 5). It runs as follows:

  “Inasmuch as we, Constantine Augustus and Licinius Augustus, have met
  together at Milan on a joyful occasion, and have discussed all that
  appertains to the public advantage and safety, we have come to the
  conclusion that, among the steps likely to profit the majority of
  mankind and demanding immediate attention, nothing is more necessary
  than to regulate the worship of the Divinity.

  “We have decided, therefore, to grant both to the Christians and to
  all others perfect freedom to practise the religion which each has
  thought best for himself, that so whatever Divinity resides in heaven
  may be placated, and rendered propitious to us and to all who have
  been placed under our authority. Consequently, we have thought this to
  be the policy demanded alike by healthy and sound reason—that no one,
  on any pretext whatever, should be denied freedom to choose his
  religion, whether he prefers the Christian religion or any other that
  seems most suited to him, in order that the Supreme Divinity, whose
  observance we obey with free minds, may in all things vouchsafe to us
  its usual favours and benevolences.

  “Wherefore, it is expedient for your Excellency to know that we have
  resolved to abolish every one of the stipulations contained in all
  previous edicts sent to you with respect to the Christians, on the
  ground that they now seem to us to be unjust and alien from the spirit
  of our clemency.

  “Henceforth, in perfect and absolute freedom, each and every person
  who chooses to belong to and practise the Christian religion shall be
  at liberty to do so without let or hindrance in any shape or form.

  “We have thought it best to explain this to your Excellency in the
  fullest possible manner that you may know that we have accorded to
  these same Christians a free and absolutely unrestricted right to
  practise their own religion.

  “And inasmuch as you see that we have granted this indulgence to the
  Christians, your Excellency will understand that a similarly free and
  unrestricted right, conformable to the peace of our times, is granted
  to all others equally to practise the religion of their choice. We
  have resolved upon this course that no one and no religion may seem to
  be robbed of the honour that is their due.”

-----

Footnote 54:

  _De Mort. Persec._, c. 48.

-----

Then follow the most explicit instructions for the restoration to the
Christians of the properties of which they had been robbed during the
persecutions, though the robbery had been committed in accordance with
imperial command. Whether a property had been simply confiscated, or
sold, or given away, it was to be handed back without the slightest cost
and without any delays or ambiguities (_Postposita omni frustratione
atque ambiguitate_). Purchasers who had bought such properties in good
faith were to be indemnified from the public treasury by grace of the
Emperor.

But the abiding interest of this celebrated edict lies in the general
principles there clearly enunciated. Every man, without distinction of
rank or nationality, is to have absolute freedom to choose and practise
the religion which he deems most suited to his needs (_Libera atque
absoluta colendæ religionis suæ facultas_). The phrase is repeated with
almost wearisome iteration, but the principle was novel and strange, and
one can see the anxiety of the framers of this edict that there shall be
no possible loophole for misunderstanding. Everybody is to have free
choice; all previous anti-Christian enactments are annulled; not only is
no compulsion to be employed against the Christian, he is not even to be
troubled or annoyed (_Citra ullam inquietudinem ac molestiam_). The
novelty lay not so much in the toleration of the existence of
Christianity,—both Constantine and Licinius had two years before signed
the edict whereby Galerius put an end to the persecution,—but in its
formal official recognition by the State.

What motives, then, are assigned by the Emperors for this notable change
of policy? Certainly not humanity. Nothing is said of the terrors of the
late persecutions and the horrible sufferings of the Christians—there is
merely a bald reference to previous edicts which the Emperors consider
“unjust and alien from the spirit of our clemency” (_Sinistra et a
nostra clementia aliena esse_). There is no appeal to political
necessity, such as the exhaustion of the world and its palpable need of
rest. The motives assigned are purely religious. The Emperors proclaim
religious toleration in order that they and their subjects may continue
to receive the blessings of Heaven. One of them at least had just
emerged victoriously from the manifold hazards of an invasion of Italy.
Surely we can trace a reference to the battle of the Milvian Bridge and
the overthrow of Maxentius in the mention of “the Divine favour towards
us, which we have experienced in affairs of the highest moment”
(_Divinus juxta nos favor quem in tantis sumus rebus experti_). What
Constantine and Licinius hope to secure is a continuance of the favour
and benevolence of the Supreme Divinity, the patronage of the ruling
powers of the sky. The phraseology is important. The name of God is not
mentioned—only the vague “_Summa Divinitas_,“ ”_Divinus favor_,” and the
still more curious and non-committal phrase, “_Quicquid est Divinitatis
in sede cœlesti_.” In Eusebius the same phrase appears in a form still
more nebulous (ὅτι ποτέ ἐστι θειότης καὶ οὐρανίου πράγματος). A pagan
philosopher, more than half sceptical as to the existence of a personal
God, might well employ such language, but it reads strangely in an
official edict.

But then this edict was to bear the joint names of Constantine and
Licinius. Constantine might be a Christian, but Licinius was still a
pagan, and Licinius was not his vassal, but his equal. He would
certainly not have been prepared to set his name to an edict which
pledged him to personal adherence to the Christian faith. Constantine,
in the flush of triumph, would insist that the persecution of the
Christians should cease, and that the Christian religion should be
officially recognised. Licinius would raise no objection. But they would
speedily find, when it came to drafting a joint edict, that the only
religious ground common to them both was very limited in extent, and
that the only way to preserve a semblance of unity was to employ the
vaguest phraseology which each might interpret in his own fashion. If we
can imagine the Pope and the Caliph drafting a joint appeal to mankind
which necessitated the mention of the Higher Power, they would find
themselves driven to use words as cloudy and indistinct as the “Whatever
Divinity there is and heavenly substance” of Eusebius. No, it was not
that Constantine’s mind was in the transitional stage; it was rather
that he had to find a common platform for himself and Licinius.

But to have converted Licinius at all to an official recognition of the
Christians and complete toleration was a great achievement, for the
principle, as we have said, was entirely new. M. Gaston Boissier, in
discussing this point, recalls how even the broad-minded Plato had found
no place in his ideal republic for those who disbelieved in the gods of
their fatherland and of the city of their birth. Even if they kept their
opinions to themselves and did not seek to disturb the faith of others,
Plato insisted upon their being placed in a House of Correction—it is
true he calls it a Sophronisterion, or House of Wisdom—for five years,
where they were to listen to a sermon every day; while, if they were
zealous propagandists of their pernicious doctrines, he proposed to keep
them all their lives in horrible dungeons and deny their bodies after
death the right of sepulture. How, one wonders, would Socrates have
fared in such a state? No better, we fancy, than he fared in his own
city of Athens. But, throughout antiquity, every lawgiver took the same
view, that a good citizen must accept without question the gods of his
native place who had been the gods of his fathers; and it was a simple
step from that position to the stern refusal to allow a man, in the
vigorous words of the Old Testament, to go a-whoring after other gods.
“For I, thy God, am a jealous God.” The God of the Jews was not more
jealous than the gods of the Assyrians, the Egyptians, the Greeks, or
the Romans would like to have been, had they had the same power of
concise expression.

What was the theory of the State religion in Rome? Cicero tells us in a
well-known passage in his treatise _On the Laws_, where he quotes the
ancient formula, “Let no man have separate gods of his own: nor let
people privately worship new gods or alien gods, unless they have been
publicly admitted.”[55] Nothing could be more explicit. But theory and
practice in Rome had a habit of becoming divorced from one another. It
is a notorious fact that, as Rome’s conquering eagles flew farther
afield, the legions and the merchants who followed in their track
brought all manner of strange gods back to the city, where every
wandering Chaldæan thaumaturgist, magician, or soothsayer found welcome
and profit, and every stray goddess—especially if her rites had
mysteries attached to them—received a comfortable home. In a word, Rome
found new religions just as fascinating—for a season or two—as do the
capitals of the modern world, and these new religions were certainly not
“publicly admitted” by the _Pontifex Maximus_ and the representatives of
the State religion. Occasionally, usually after some outbreak of
pestilence or because an Emperor was nervous at the presence of so many
swarthy charlatans devoting themselves to the Black Arts, an order of
expulsion would be issued and there would be a fluttering of the
dove-cotes. But they came creeping back one by one, as the storm blew
over. While, therefore, in theory the gods of Rome were jealous, in
practice they were not so. The easy scepticism or eclecticism of the
cultured Roman was conducive to tolerance. Cicero’s famous sentence in
the _Pro Flacco_, “Each state has its own religion, Lælius: we have
ours,” shews how little of the religious fanatic there was in the
average Roman, who stole the gods of the people he conquered and made
them his own, so that they might acquiesce in the Roman domination. The
Roman was tolerant enough in private life towards other people’s
religious convictions: all he asked was reciprocity, and that was
precisely what the Christian would not and could not give him. If the
Christian would have sacrificed at the altars of the State gods, the
Roman would never have objected to his worship of Christ for his own
private satisfaction. There lies the secret of the persecutions, and of
the fierce anti-Christian hatreds.

Constantine and Licinius, by their edict of recognition and toleration,
“publicly admitted” into the Roman worship the God of the Christians.

-----

Footnote 55:

  _Separatim nemo habessit deos: neve novos, sive advenas, nisi publice
  adscitos privatim colunto._—_De Leg._, ii., 8.

-----

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]


                              CHAPTER VII
                        THE DOWNFALL OF LICINIUS


It will be convenient in this chapter to present a connected narrative
of the course of political events from the Edict of Milan in 313 down to
the overthrow of Licinius by Constantine in 324. We have seen that
Maximin Daza never moved a single soldier to help his ally, Maxentius,
during Constantine’s invasion of Italy, though he soon gave practical
proof that his hostility had not abated by invading the territory of
Licinius. The attack was clearly not expected. Licinius was still at
Milan, and his troops had probably been drawn off into winter quarters,
when the news came that Maximin had collected a powerful army in Syria,
had marched through to Bithynia regardless of the sufferings of his
legions and the havoc caused in the ranks by the severity of the season,
and had succeeded in crossing the Bosphorus. Apparently, Maximin was
besieging Byzantium before Licinius was ready to move from Italy to
confront him.

Byzantium capitulated after a siege of eleven days and Heraclea did not
offer a prolonged resistance. By this time, however, Licinius was
getting within touch of the invader and preparations were made on both
sides for a pitched battle. The numbers of Licinius’s army were scarcely
half those of his rival, but Maximin was completely routed on a plain
called Serenus, near the city of Adrianople, and fled for his life,
leaving his broken battalions to shift for themselves. Lactantius, in
describing the engagement,[56] represents it as having been a duel to
the death between Christianity and paganism. He says that Maximin had
vowed to eradicate the very name of the Christians if Jupiter favoured
his arms; while Licinius had been warned by an angel of God in a dream
that, if he wished to make infallibly sure of victory, he and his army
had only to recite a prayer to Almighty God which the angel would
dictate to him. Licinius at once sent for a secretary and the prayer was
taken down. It ran as follows:

  “God most High, we call upon Thee; Holy God, we call upon Thee. We
  commend to Thee all justice; we commend to Thee our safety; we commend
  to Thee our sovereignty. Through Thee we live; through Thee we gain
  victory and happiness. Most High and Holy God, hear our prayers. We
  stretch out our arms to Thee. Hear us, Most High and Holy God.”

-----

Footnote 56:

  _De Mort. Persec._, c. 46.

-----

Such was the talismanic prayer of which the Emperor’s secretary made
hurried copies, distributing them to the general officers and the
tribunes of the legions, with instructions that the troops were at once
to get the words off by heart. When the armies moved against one another
in battle array, the legions of Licinius at a given signal laid down
their shields, removed their helmets, and, lifting their hands to
heaven, recited in unison these rhythmic sentences with their strangely
effective repetitions. Lactantius tells us that the murmur of the prayer
was borne upon the ears of the doomed army of the enemy. Then, after a
brief colloquy between the rivals, in which Maximin refused to offer or
agree to any concession, because he believed that the soldiers of
Licinius would come over to him in a body, the armies charged and the
standard of Maximin went down.

It is a striking story, and we may easily understand that Licinius,
fresh from his meeting with Constantine and with vivid recollection of
how valiantly this _Summus Deus_ had fought for his ally against
Maxentius, would be ready to believe beforehand in the efficacy of any
supernatural warning conveyed by any supernatural “minister of grace.”
We may note, too, the splendid vagueness of the Deity invoked in the
prayer. Lactantius, of course, claims that this Most High and Holy God
is none other than the God of the Christians, but there was nothing to
prevent the votary of Jupiter, of Apollo, of Mithra, of Baal, or of
Balenus, from thinking that he was imploring the aid of his own familiar
deity.

Maximin fled from the scene of carnage as though he had been pursued by
all the Cabiri. Throwing aside his purple and assuming the garb of a
slave—it is Lactantius, however, who is speaking—he crossed the
Bosphorus, and, within twenty-four hours of quitting the field, reached
once more the palace of Nicomedia—a distance of a hundred and sixty
miles. Taking his wife and children with him, he hurried through the
defiles of the Taurus, summoned to his side whatever troops he had left
behind in Syria and Egypt, and awaited the oncoming of Licinius, who
followed at leisure in his tracks. The end was not long delayed.
Maximin’s soldiers regarded his cause as lost, and despairing of
clemency, he took his own life at Tarsus. His provinces passed without a
struggle into the hands of Licinius, who butchered every surviving
member of Maximin’s family.

Nor had the victor pity even for two ladies of imperial rank, whose
misfortunes and sufferings excited the deepest compassion in that
stony-hearted age. These were Prisca, the wife of Diocletian, and her
daughter Valeria, the widow of the Emperor Galerius. On his death-bed
Galerius had entrusted his wife to the care and the gratitude of
Maximin, whom he had raised from obscurity to a throne. Maximin repaid
his confidence by pressing Valeria to marry him and offering to divorce
his own wife. Valeria returned an indignant and high-spirited refusal.
She would never think of marriage, she said,[57] while still wearing
mourning for a husband whose ashes were not yet cold. It was monstrous
that Maximin should seek to divorce a faithful wife, and, even if she
assented to his proposal, she had clear warning of what was likely to be
her own fate. Finally, it was not becoming that the daughter of
Diocletian and the widow of Galerius should stoop to a second marriage.
Maximin took a bitter revenge. He reduced Valeria to penury, marked down
all her friends for ruin, and finally drove her into exile with her
mother, Prisca, who nobly shared the sufferings of the daughter whom she
could not shield. Lactantius tells us that the two imperial ladies
wandered miserably through the Syrian wastes, while Maximin took delight
in spurning the overtures of the aged Diocletian, who sent repeated
messages begging that his daughter might be allowed to go and live with
him at Salona. Maximin refused even when Diocletian sent one of his
relatives to remind him of past benefits, and the two unfortunate ladies
knew no alleviation of their troubles. When the tyrant fell, they
probably thought that the implacable hatred with which Maximin had
pursued them would be their best recommendation to the favour of
Licinius. Again, however, they were disappointed, for Licinius, in his
jealous anxiety to spare no one connected with the families of his
predecessors in the purple, ordered the execution of Candidianus, a
natural son of Galerius, who had been brought up by Valeria as her own
child. In despair, therefore, the two ladies, who had boldly gone to
Nicomedia, fled from the scene and “wandered for fifteen months,
disguised as plebeians, through various provinces,”[58] until they had
the misfortune to be recognised at Thessalonica. They were at once
beheaded and their bodies thrown into the sea, amid the pitying sympathy
of a vast throng which dared not lift a hand to save them.

-----

Footnote 57:

  _De Mort. Persec._, c. 39.

Footnote 58:

  _De Mort Persec._, c. 51.

-----

Constantine and Licinius now shared between them the whole of the Roman
Empire. They were allies, but their alliance did not long stand the
strain of their respective ambitions. Each had won an easy victory over
his antagonist, and each was confident that his legions would suffice to
win him undivided empire. We know very little of the pretexts assigned
for the quarrel which culminated in the war of 316. Zosimus throws the
blame upon Constantine, whom he accuses of not keeping faith and of
trying to filch from Licinius some of his provinces. But as the
sympathies of Zosimus were strongly pagan and as he invariably imputed
the worst possible motive to Constantine, it is fairest and most
reasonable to suppose that the two Emperors simply quarrelled over the
division of the Empire. Constantine had given the hand of his
half-sister Anastasia to one of his generals, named Bassianus, whom he
had raised to the dignity of a Cæsar. But for some reason left
unexplained—possibly because Constantine granted only the title, without
the legions and the provinces, of a Cæsar—Bassianus became discontented
with his position and entered into an intrigue with Licinius.
Constantine discovered the plot, put Bassianus to death, and demanded
from Licinius the surrender of Senecio, a brother of the victim and a
relative of Licinius. The demand was refused; some statues of
Constantine were demolished by Licinius’s orders at Æmona (Laybach) and
war ensued.

The armies met in the autumn of 316 near Cibalis, in Pannonia, between
the rivers Drave and Save. Neither Emperor led into the field anything
approaching the full strength he was able to muster; Licinius is said to
have had only 35,000 men and Constantine no more than 20,000. From
Zosimus’s highly rhetorical account of the battle[59] we gather that
Constantine chose a position between a steep hill and an impassable
morass, and repulsed the charge of the legions of Licinius. Then as he
advanced into the plain in pursuit of the enemy, he was checked by some
fresh troops which Licinius brought up, and a long and stubborn contest
lasted until nightfall, when Constantine decided the fortunes of the day
by an irresistible charge. Licinius is said to have lost 20,000 men in
this encounter, more than fifty per cent. of his entire force, and he
beat a hurried retreat, leaving his camp to be plundered by the victor,
whose own losses must also have been severe.

-----

Footnote 59:

  Zosimus, ii., 19.

-----

A few weeks later the battle was renewed on the plain of Mardia in
Thrace. Licinius had evidently been strongly reinforced from Asia, for,
though he was again defeated after a hotly contested battle, he was able
to effect an orderly retreat and draw off his beaten troops without
disorder—a rare thing in the annals of Roman warfare, where defeat
usually involved destruction. Constantine is said to have owed his
victory to his superior generalship and to the skill with which he timed
a surprise attack of five thousand of his men upon the rear of the
enemy. Yet we may be certain that he would not have consented to treat
with Licinius for peace had he not had considerable cause for anxiety
about the final issue of the campaign. However, his two victories, while
not sufficiently decisive to enable him to dictate any terms he chose,
at least gave him the authoritative word in the negotiations which
ensued, and sealed the doom of the unfortunate Valens, whom Licinius had
just appointed Cæsar. When Licinius’s envoy spoke of his two imperial
masters, Licinius and Valens, Constantine retorted that he recognised
but one, and bluntly stated that he had not endured tedious marches and
won a succession of victories, only to share the prize with a
contemptible slave. Licinius sacrificed his lieutenant without
compunction and consented to hand over to Constantine Illyria and its
legions, with the important provinces of Pannonia, Dalmatia, Moesia, and
Dacia. The only foothold left him on the Continent of Europe, out of all
that had previously been included in the eastern half of the Empire, was
the province of Thrace.

At the same time, the two Emperors agreed to elevate their sons to the
rank of Cæsar. Constantine bestowed the dignity upon Crispus, the son of
his first marriage with Minervina. Crispus was now in the promise of
early manhood, and had proved his valour, and won his spurs in the
recent campaign. Licinius gave the title to his son Licinianus, an
infant no more than twenty months old. These appointments are important,
for they shew how completely the system of Diocletian had broken down.
The Emperors appointed Cæsars out of deference to the letter of that
constitution, but they outrageously violated its spirit by appointing
their own sons, and when the choice fell on an infant, insult was added
to injury. It was plain warning to all the world that Constantine and
Licinius meant to keep power in their own hands. When, a few years
later, three sons were born to Constantine and Fausta in quick
succession, the eldest, who was given the name of his father, was
created Cæsar shortly after his birth. No doubt the Empress—herself an
Emperor’s daughter—demanded that her son should enjoy equal rank with
the son of the low-born Minervina, and the probabilities are that
Constantine already looked forward to providing the young Princes with
patrimonies carved out of the territory of Licinius. However, there was
no actual rupture between the two Emperors until 323, though relations
had long been strained.

We know comparatively little of what took place in the intervening
years. They were not, however, years of unbroken peace. There was
fighting both on the Danube and the Rhine. The Goths and the Sarmatæ,
who had been taught such a severe lesson by Claudius and Aurelian that
they had left the Danubian frontier undisturbed for half a century,
again surged forward and swept over Moesia and Pannonia. We hear of
several hard-fought battles along the course of the river, and then,
when Constantine, at the head of his legions, had driven out the
invader, he himself crossed the Danube and compelled the barbarians to
assent to a peace whereby they pledged themselves to supply the Roman
armies, when required, with forty thousand auxiliaries. The details of
this campaign are exceedingly obscure and untrustworthy. The Panegyrists
of the Emperor claimed that he had repeated the triumphs of Trajan.
Constantine himself is represented by the mocking Julian as boasting
that he was a greater general than Trajan, because it is a finer thing
to win back what you have lost than to conquer something which was not
yours before. The probabilities are that there took place one of those
alarming barbarian movements from which the Roman Empire was never long
secure, that Constantine beat it back successfully, and gained victories
which were decisive enough at the moment, but in which there was no real
finality, because no finality was possible. Probably it was the
seriousness of these Gothic and Sarmatian campaigns which was chiefly
responsible for the years of peace between Constantine and Licinius.
Until the barbarian danger had been repelled, Constantine was perforce
obliged to remain on tolerable terms with the Emperor of the East.

While the father was thus engaged on the Danube, the son was similarly
employed on the Rhine. The young Cæsar, Crispus, already entrusted with
the administration of Gaul and Britain and the command of the Rhine
legions, won a victory over the Alemanni in a winter campaign and
distinguished himself by the skill and rapidity with which he executed a
long forced march despite the icy rigours of a severe season. It is
Nazarius, the Panegyrist, who refers[60] in glowing sentences to this
admirable performance—carried through, he says, with “incredibly
youthful verve” (_incredibili juvenilitate confecit_),—and praises
Crispus to the skies as “the most noble Cæsar of his august father.”
When that speech was delivered on the day of the Quinquennalia of the
Cæsars in 321, Constantine’s ears did not yet grudge to listen to the
eulogies of his gallant son.

-----

Footnote 60:

  _Pan. Vet._, x., 36.

-----

But there is one omission from the speech which is exceedingly
significant. It contains no mention of Licinius, and no one reading the
oration would gather that there were two Emperors or that the Empire was
divided. Evidently, Constantine and Licinius were no longer on good
terms, and none knew better than the Panegyrists of the Court the art of
suppressing the slightest word or reference that might bring a frown to
the brow of their imperial auditor. But even two years before, in 319,
the names of Licinius and the boy, Cæsar Licinianus, had ceased to
figure on the consular Fasti—a straw which pointed very clearly in which
direction the wind was blowing.

Zosimus attributes the war to the ambition of Constantine; Eutropius
roundly accuses[61] him of having set his heart upon acquiring the
sovereignty of the whole world. On the other hand, Eusebius[62] depicts
Constantine as a magnanimous monarch, the very pattern of humanity, long
suffering of injury, and forgiving to the point of seventy times seven
the ungrateful intrigues of the black-hearted Licinius. According to the
Bishop of Cæsarea, Constantine had been the benefactor of Licinius, who,
conscious of his inferiority, plotted in secret until he was driven into
open enmity. But it is very evident that the reason of Eusebius’s enmity
to Licinius was the anti-Christian policy into which the Emperor had
drifted, as soon as he became estranged from Constantine. A more
detailed description of Licinius’s religious policy and of the new
persecution which broke out in his provinces will be found in another
chapter; here we need only point out Eusebius’s anxiety to represent the
cause of the quarrel between the Emperors as being in the main a
religious one. He tells us[63] that Licinius regarded as traitors to
himself those who were friendly to his rival, and savagely attacked the
bishops, who, as he judged, were his most bitter opponents. The phrase,
not without reason, has given rise to the suspicion that the Christian
bishops of the East were regarded as head centres of political
disaffection, and Licinius evidently suspected them of preaching treason
and acting as the agents of Constantine. We have not sufficient data to
enable us to draw any sure inference, but the bishops could not help
contrasting the liberality of Constantine to the Church, of which he was
the open champion, with the reactionary policy of Licinius, which had at
length culminated in active persecution.

-----

Footnote 61:

  Eutropius, x., 5: _Principatum totius orbis adfectans._

Footnote 62:

  Euseb., _De Vita Const._, i., 50.

Footnote 63:

  _Ibid._, i., 56.

-----

[Illustration:

  THE WESTERN SIDE OF A PEDESTAL, SHOWING THE HOMAGE OF THE VANQUISHED
    GOTHS.
  FROM GROSVENOR’S “CONSTANTINOPLE.”
]

But the dominant cause of this war is to be found in political ambitions
rather than in religious passions, and if we must declare who of the two
was the aggressor, it is difficult to escape throwing the blame upon
Constantine. Licinius was advancing in years. Even if he had not
outlived his ambitions, he can at least have had little taste for a
campaign in which he put all to the venture. Constantine, on the other
hand, was in the prime of life, and the master of a well tried,
disciplined, and victorious army. The odds were on his side. He had all
the legions which could be spared from the Rhine and the Danube, and all
the auxiliaries from the Illyrian and Pannonian provinces—the best
recruiting grounds in the Empire—to oppose to the legions of Syria and
Egypt. Constantine doubtless seemed to the bishops to be entering the
field as the champion of the Church, but the real prize which drew him
on was universal dominion.

This time both Emperors exerted themselves to make tremendous
preparations for the struggle. Zosimus describes how Constantine began a
new naval harbour at Thessalonica to accommodate the two hundred war
galleys and two thousand transports which he had ordered to be built in
his dock-yards. He mobilised, if Zosimus is to be trusted, 120,000
infantry and 10,000 marines and cavalry. Licinius, on the other hand, is
said to have collected 150,000 foot and 15,000 horse. Whether these
numbers are trustworthy or not, it is evident that the two Emperors did
their best to throw every available man into the plain of Adrianople,
where the two hosts were separated by the river Hebrus. Some days were
spent in skirmishing and manœuvring; then on July 3, 323, a decisive
action was brought on, which ended in the rout of the army of Licinius.
Constantine, whose tactical dispositions seem to have been more skilful
than those of Licinius, secretly detached a force of 5000 archers to
occupy a position in the rear of the enemy, and these used their bows
with overwhelming effect at a critical moment of the action, when
Constantine himself, at the head of another detachment, succeeded in
forcing a passage of the river. Constantine received a slight wound in
the thigh, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the enemy driven from
their fortified camp and betake themselves in hurried flight to the
sheltering walls of Byzantium, leaving 34,000 dead and wounded on the
field of battle.

Byzantium was a stronghold which had fallen before Maximin after a siege
of eleven days, but we may suppose that Licinius had looked well to its
fortifications with a view to such an emergency as that in which he now
found himself. He placed, however, his chief reliance in his fleet,
which was nearly twice as numerous as that of Constantine. Licinius had
assembled 350 ships of war, levied, in accordance with the practice of
Rome, from the maritime countries of Asia and Egypt. No fewer than 130
came from Egypt and Libya, 110 from Phœnicia and Cyprus, and a similar
quota from the ports of Cilicia, Ionia, and Bithynia. The galleys were
probably in good fighting trim, but the service was not a willing one,
and the fleet was as badly handled as it was badly stationed. Amandus,
the admiral of Licinius, had kept his ships cooped up in the narrow
Hellespont, thus acting weakly on the defensive instead of boldly
seeking out the enemy. Constantine entrusted the chief command of his
various squadrons to his son Crispus, whose only experience of naval
matters had probably been obtained from the manœuvres of the war galleys
on the Rhine. But a Roman general was supposed to be able to take
command on either element as circumstances required. In the present case
Crispus more than justified his father’s choice. He was ordered to
attack and destroy Amandus, and the peremptoriness of the order was
doubtless due to the difficulty of obtaining supplies for so large an
army by land transport only. Two actions were fought on two successive
days. In the first Amandus had both wind and current in his favour and
made a drawn battle of it. The next day the wind had veered round to the
south, and Crispus, closing with the enemy, destroyed 130 of their
vessels and 5000 of their crews. The passage of the Hellespont was
forced; Amandus with the remainder of his fleet fled back to the shelter
of Byzantium, and the straits were open for the passage of Constantine’s
transports.

The Emperor pushed the siege with energy, and plied the walls so
vigorously with his engines that Licinius, aware that the capitulation
of Byzantium could not long be postponed, crossed over into Asia to
escape being involved in its fate. Even then he was not utterly
despondent of success, for he raised one of his lieutenants,
Martinianus, to the dignity of Cæsar or Augustus—a perilous distinction
for any recipient with the short shrift of Valens before his eyes—and,
collecting what troops he could, he set his fleet and army to oppose the
crossing of Constantine when Byzantium had fallen. But holding as he did
the command of the sea, the victor found no difficulty in effecting a
landing at Chrysopolis, and Licinius’s last gallant effort to drive back
the invader was repulsed with a loss of 25,000 men. Eusebius, in an
exceptionally foolish chapter, declares that Licinius harangued his
troops before the battle, bidding them carefully keep out of the way of
the sacred Labarum, under which Constantine moved to never-failing
victory, or, if they had the mischance to come near it in the press of
battle, not to look heedlessly upon it. He then goes on to ascribe the
victory not to the superior tactical dispositions of his chief or to the
valour of his men, but simply and solely to the fact that Constantine
was “clad in the breastplate of reverence and had ranged over against
the numbers of the enemy the salutary and life-giving sign, to inspire
his foes with terror and shield himself from harm.”[64] We suspect,
indeed, that far too little justice has been done to the good
generalship of Constantine, who, by his latest victory, brought to a
close a brilliant and entirely successful campaign over an Emperor whose
stubborn powers of resistance and dauntless energy even in defeat
rendered him a most formidable opponent.

-----

Footnote 64:

  _De Vita Const._, ii., 16. τὸ σωτήριον καὶ ζωοποιὸν σημεῖον, ὥσπερ τι
  φόβητρον καὶ κακῶν ἀμυντήριον.

-----

Licinius fell back upon Nicomedia. His army was gone. There was no time
to beat up new recruits, for the conqueror was hard upon his heels. He
had to choose, therefore, between suicide, submission, and flight. He
would perhaps have best consulted his fame had he chosen the proud Roman
way out of irreparable disaster and taken his life. Instead he begged
that life might be spared him. The request would have been hopeless, and
would probably never have been made, had he not possessed in his wife,
Constantia, a very powerful advocate with her brother. Constantia’s
pleadings were effectual: Constantine consented to see his beaten
antagonist, who came humbly into his presence, laid his purple at the
victor’s feet, and sued for life from the compassion of his master. It
was a humiliating and an un-Roman scene. Constantine promised
forgiveness, admitted the suppliant to the Imperial table, and then
relegated him to Thessalonica to spend the remainder of his days in
obscurity. Licinius did not long survive. Later historians, anxious to
clear Constantine’s character of every stain, accused Licinius of
plotting against the generous Emperor who had spared him. Others
declared that he fell in a soldiers’ brawl: one even says that the
Senate passed a decree devoting him to death. It is infinitely more
probable that Constantine repented of his clemency. No Roman Emperor
seems to have been able to endure for long the existence of a discrowned
rival, however impotent to harm. Eutropius expressly states that
Licinius was put to death in violation of the oath which Constantine had
sworn to him.[65] Eusebius says not a word of Licinius’s life having
been promised him; he only remarks, “Then Constantine, dealing with the
accursed of GOD and his associates according to the rules of war, handed
them over to fitting punishment.”[66] A pretty euphemism for an act of
assassination!

-----

Footnote 65:

  _Contra religionem sacramenti occisus est_, x., 6.

Footnote 66:

  _De Vita Const._, ii., 18.

-----

So died Licinius, unregretted by any save the zealous advocates of
paganism, in the city where he himself had put to death those two
hapless ladies, Prisca and Valeria. The best character sketch of him is
found in Aurelius Victor, who describes him as grasping and avaricious,
rough in manners and of excessively hasty temper, and a sworn foe to
culture, which he used to say was a public poison and pest (_virus et
pestem publicum_), notably the culture associated with the study and
practice of the law. Himself of the humblest origin, he was a good
friend to the small farmers’ interests; while he was a martinet of the
strictest type in all that related to the army. He detested the
paraphernalia of a court, in which Constantine delighted, and Aurelius
Victor says that he made a clean sweep (_vehemens domitor_) of all
eunuchs and chamberlains, whom he described as the moths and shrew-mice
of the palace (_tineas soricesque palatii_). Of his religious policy we
shall speak elsewhere; of his reign there is little to be said. It has
left no impress upon history, and Licinius is only remembered as the
Emperor whose misfortune it was to stand in the way of Constantine and
his ambitions. Constantine threw down his statues; revoked his edicts;
and if he spared his young son, the Cæsar Licinianus, the clemency was
due to affection for the mother, not to pity for the child. Martinianus,
the Emperor at most of a few weeks, had been put to death after the
defeat of Chrysopolis, and Constantine reigned alone with his sons. The
Roman Empire was united once more.

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER VIII
                        LAST DAYS OF PERSECUTION


In a previous chapter we gave a brief account of the terrible sufferings
inflicted upon the Church during the persecution which followed the
edicts of Diocletian. They continued for many years almost without
interruption, but with varying intensity. When, for example, Diocletian
celebrated his Vicennalia a general amnesty was proclaimed which must
have opened the prison doors to many thousands of Christians. Eusebius
expressly states that the amnesty was for “all who were in prison the
world over,” and there is no hint that liberty was made conditional upon
apostasy. None the less, it is certain that a great number of Christians
were still kept in the cells—on the pretext that they were specially
obnoxious to the civil power—by governors of strong anti-Christian bias.
The sword of persecution was speedily resumed and wielded as vigorously
as before down to the abdication of Diocletian and Maximian.

Then came another lull. With Constantius as the senior Augustus the
persecution came to an end in the West, and even in the East there was
an interval of peace. For Maximin, who was soon to develop into the most
ferocious of all the persecutors,—so St. Jerome speaks of him in
comparison with Decius and Diocletian,—gave a brief respite to the
Christians in his provinces of Egypt, Cilicia, Palestine, and Syria.

  “When I first visited the East,” Maximin wrote,[67] some years later,
  in referring to his accession, “I found that a great number of persons
  who might have been useful to the State had been exiled to various
  places by the judges. I ordered each one of these judges no longer to
  press hardly upon the provincials, but rather to exhort them by kindly
  words to return to the worship of the gods. While my orders were
  obeyed by the magistrates, no one in the countries of the East was
  exiled or ill-treated, but the provincials, won over by kindness,
  returned to the worship of the gods.”

-----

Footnote 67:

  Eusebius, _Hist. Eccles._, ix., 9.

-----

Direct contradiction is given to this boast as to the number of
Christian apostates by the fact that, within a twelvemonth, the new
Cæsar grew tired of seeking to kill Christianity by kindness and revoked
his recent rescript of leniency. Maximin developed into a furious bigot.
He fell wholly under the influence of the more fanatical priests and
became increasingly devoted to magic, divination, and the black arts.
Lactantius declares that not a joint appeared at his table which had not
been taken from some victim sacrificed by a priest at an altar and
drenched with the wine of libation. Edict followed edict in rapid
succession, until, in the middle of 306, what Eusebius describes as “a
second declaration of war” was issued, which ordered every magistrate to
compel all who lived within his jurisdiction to sacrifice to the gods on
pain of being burnt alive. House to house visitations were set on foot
that no creature might escape, and the common informer was encouraged by
large rewards to be active in his detestable occupation. It would seem
indeed as if the Christians in the provinces of Maximin suffered far
more severely than any of their brethren. The most frightful bodily
mutilations were practised. Batches of Christians were sentenced to work
in the porphyry mines of Egypt or the copper mines of Phænos in
Palestine, after being hamstrung and having their right eyes burnt out
with hot irons. The evidence of Lactantius, who says that the confessors
had their eyes dug out, their hands and feet amputated, and their
nostrils and ears cut off, is corroborated by Eusebius and the authors
of the _Passions_.

Palestine seems to have had two peculiarly brutal governors, Urbanus and
Firmilianus. The latter in a single day presided at the execution of
twelve Christians, pilgrims from Egypt on their way to succour the
unfortunate convicts in the copper mines of Palestine, whose deplorable
condition had awakened the active sympathy of the Christian East. These
bands of pilgrims had to pass through Cæsarea, where the officers of
Firmilianus were on the watch for them, and as soon as they confessed
that they were Christians they were haled before the tribunal, where
their doom was certain. A distinguishing feature of the persecution in
the provinces of Maximin was the frequency of outrages upon Christian
women and the fortitude with which many of the victims committed suicide
rather than suffer pollution. The story of St. Pelagia of Antioch is
typical. Maximin sent some soldiers to conduct her to his palace. They
found her alone in her house and announced their errand. With perfect
composure this girl of fifteen asked permission to retire in order to
change her dress, and then, mounting to the roof, threw herself down
into the street below. Eusebius, himself an eye-witness of this
persecution, gives many a vivid story of the fury of Maximin and his
officials, and of the cold-blooded calculation with which he sought to
draw new victims into the net of the law. In 308 he issued an edict
ordering every city and village thoroughly to repair any temple which,
for whatever reason, had been allowed to fall into ruins. He increased
tenfold the number of priesthoods, and insisted upon daily sacrifices.
The magistrates were again strictly enjoined to compel men, women,
children, and slaves alike to offer sacrifice and partake of the
sacrificial food. All goods exposed for sale in the public markets were
to be sprinkled with lustral water, and even at the entrance to the
public baths, officials were to be placed to see that no one passed
through the doors without throwing a few grains of incense on the altar.
Maximin, in short, was a religious bigot, who combined with a zealous
observance of pagan ritual a consuming hatred of Christianity.

There are not many records of what was taking place in the provinces of
Galerius, while Maximin was thus terrorising Syria and Egypt. But the
Emperor had begun to see that the persecution, upon which he had entered
with such zest some years before, was bound to end in failure. The
terrible malady which attacked him in 310 would tend to confirm his
forebodings. Like Antiochus Epiphanius, Herod the Great, and Herod
Agrippa, Galerius became, before death released him from his agony, a
putrescent and loathsome spectacle. His physicians could do nothing for
him. Imploring deputations were sent to beg the aid of Apollo and
Æsculapius. Apollo prescribed a remedy, but the application only left
the patient worse, and Lactantius quotes with powerful effect the lines
from Virgil which describe Laocoon in the toils of the serpents, raising
horror-stricken cries to Heaven, like some wounded bull as it flies
bellowing from the altar. Was it when broken by a year’s constant
anguish that Galerius exclaimed that he would restore the temple of God
and make amends for his sin? Was he, as Lactantius says, “compelled to
confess GOD”? Whether that be so or not, here is the remarkable edict
which the shattered Emperor found strength to dictate. It deserves to be
given in full:

  “Among the measures which we have constantly taken for the well-being
  and advantage of the State, we had wished to regulate everything
  according to the ancient laws and public discipline of the Romans, and
  especially to provide that the Christians, who had abandoned the
  religion of their ancestors, should return to a better frame of mind.

  “For, from whatever reason, these Christians were the victims of such
  wilfulness and folly that they not only refused to follow the ancient
  customs, which very likely their own forefathers had instituted, but
  they made laws for themselves according to their fancy and caprice,
  and gathered together all kinds of people in different places.

  “Eventually, when our commands had been published that they should
  conform to long established custom, many submitted from fear, and many
  more under the compulsion of punishment.

  “But since the majority have obstinately held out and we see that they
  neither give the gods their worship and due, nor yet adore the God of
  the Christians, we have taken into consideration our unexampled
  clemency and followed the dictation of the invariable mercifulness,
  which we shew to all men.

  “We have, therefore, thought it best to extend even to these people
  our fullest indulgence and to give[68] them leave once more to be
  Christians, and rebuild their meeting places, provided that they do
  nothing contrary to discipline.

  “In another letter we shall make clear to the magistrates the course
  which they should pursue.

  “In return for our indulgence the Christians will, in duty bound, pray
  to their God for our safety, for their own, and for that of the State,
  that so the State may everywhere be safe and prosperous, and that they
  themselves may dwell in security in their homes.”

This extraordinary edict was issued at Nicomedia on the last day of
April, 311. It is as abject a confession of failure as could be expected
from an Emperor. Galerius admits that the majority of Christians have
stubbornly held to their faith in spite of bitter persecution, and now,
as they are determined to sin against the light and follow their own
caprice, more in sorrow than in anger, he will recognise their status as
Christians and give them the right of assembly, provided they do not
offend against public discipline. But the special interest of this edict
lies in the Emperor’s request that the Christians will pray for him, in
the despairing hope that Christ may succeed, where Apollo has failed, in
finding a remedy for his grievous case. Galerius was ready to clutch at
any passing straw.

-----

Footnote 68:

  _Ut denuo sint Christiani et conventicula componant, ita ut ne quid
  contra disciplinam agant._

-----

The edict bore the names of Galerius, of Constantine, and of Licinius.
Maxentius, who at this time ruled Italy, was not recognised by Galerius,
so the absence of his name causes no surprise. Maximin’s name is also
absent, but we find one of his præfects, Sabinus, addressing shortly
afterwards a circular letter to all the Governors of Cilicia, Syria, and
Egypt, in which the signal was given to stop the persecution. Like
Galerius, Maximin declared that the sole object of the Emperors had been
to lead all men back to a pious and regular life, and to restore to the
gods those who had embraced alien rites contrary to the spirit of the
institutions of Rome. Then the letter continued:

  “But since the mad obstinacy of certain people has reached such a
  pitch that they are not to be shaken in their resolution either by the
  justice of the imperial command or by the fear of imminent punishment,
  and since, actuated by these motives, a very large number have brought
  themselves into positions of extreme peril, it has pleased their
  Majesties in their great pity and compassion to send this letter to
  your Excellency.

  “Their instructions are that if any Christian has been apprehended,
  while observing the religion of his sect, you are to deliver him from
  all molestation and annoyance and not to inflict any penalty upon him,
  for a very long experience has convinced the Emperors that there is no
  method of turning these people from their madness.

  “Your Excellency will therefore write to the magistrates, to the
  commander of the forces, and to the town provosts, in each city, that
  they may know for the future that they are not to interfere with the
  Christians any more.”

In other words, the prisons were to be emptied and the mad sectaries to
be let alone. The bigot was obliged to bow, however reluctantly, to the
wishes and commands of the senior Augustus, even though Galerius was a
broken and dying man.

Nevertheless, within six months we find Maximin devising new schemes for
troubling the Christians. Eusebius tells us with what joy the edict of
toleration had been welcomed, with what triumph the Christians had
quitted their prisons, and with what enthusiastic exultation the bands
of Christian confessors, returning from the mines to their own towns and
villages, were received by the Christian communities in the places
through which they passed. Those whose testimony to their faith had not
been so sure and clear, those who had bowed the knee to Baal under the
shadow of torture and death, humbly approached their stouter-hearted
brethren and implored their intercession. The Church rose from the
persecution proudly and confidently, and with incredible speed renewed
its suspended services and repaired its broken organisation. Maximin
issued an order forbidding Christians to assemble after dark in their
cemeteries, as they had been in the habit of doing, in order to
celebrate the victory of their martyrs over death. Such assemblies, the
Emperor said, were subversive of morality: they were to be allowed no
more. This must have warned the Christians how little reliance was to be
placed in the promises of Maximin, and shortly afterwards they had
another warning. Maximin made a tour through his provinces and in
several cities received petitions in which he was urged to give an order
for the absolute expulsion of all Christians. No doubt it was known that
such a request would be well pleasing to Maximin, but at the same time
it undoubtedly points to the existence of a strong anti-Christian
feeling. At Antioch, which was under the governorship of Theotecnus, the
petitioners, according to Eusebius, said that the expulsion of the
Christians would be the greatest boon the Emperor could confer upon
them, but the full text of one of these petitions has been found among
the ruins of a small Lycian township of the name of Aricanda. It runs as
follows:

  “To the Saviours of the entire human race, to the august Cæsars,
  Galerius Valerius Maximinus, Flavius Valerius Constantinus, Valerius
  Licinianus Licinius, this petition is addressed by the people of the
  Lycians and the Pamphylians.

  “Inasmuch as the gods, your congeners, O divine Emperor, have always
  crowned with their manifest favours those who have their religion at
  heart and offer prayers to them for the perpetual safety of our
  invincible masters, we have thought it well to approach your immortal
  Majesty and to ask that the Christians, who for years have been
  impious and do not cease to be so, may be finally suppressed and
  transgress no longer, by their wicked and innovating cult, the respect
  that is owing to the gods.

  “This result would be attained if their impious rites were forbidden
  and suppressed by your divine and eternal decree, and if they were
  compelled to practise the cult of the gods, your congeners, and pray
  to them on behalf of your eternal and incorruptible Majesty. This
  would clearly be to the advantage and profit of all your subjects.”

Eusebius records two replies of the Emperor to petitions of this
character. One is contained in a letter to his præfect, Sabinus, and
relates to Nicomedia. The other is a document copied by Eusebius from a
bronze tablet set up on a column in Tyre. Maximin expatiates at great
length on the debt, which men owe to the gods, and especially to
Jupiter, the presiding deity of Tyre, for the ordered succession of the
seasons, and for keeping within their appointed bounds the overwhelming
forces of Nature. If there have been calamities and cataclysms, to what
else, he asks, can they be attributed than to the “vain and pestilential
errors of the villainous Christians?” Those who have apostatised and
have been delivered from their blindness are like people who have
escaped from a furious storm or have been cured of some deadly malady.
To them life offers once more its bounteous blessings. Then the Emperor
continues:

  “But if they still persist in their detestable errors, they shall be
  banished, in accordance with your petition, far from your city and
  your territory, that so this city of Tyre, completely purified, as you
  most properly desire it to be, may yield itself wholly to the worship
  of the gods.

  “But that you may know how agreeable your petition has been to us, and
  how, even without petition on your part, we are disposed to heap
  favours upon you, we grant you in advance any favour you shall ask,
  however great, in reward for your piety.

  “Ask, therefore, and receive, and do so without hesitation. The
  benefit which shall accrue to your city will be a perpetual witness of
  your devotion to the gods.”

Evidently the Christians had not yet come to the end of their troubles.
Those who read this circular letter, for it seems to have been sent
round from city to city, must have expected the persecution to break out
anew at any moment. We do not know to what extent the edict was
observed. If it had been generally acted upon, we should certainly have
heard more of it, inasmuch as it must have entailed a widespread exodus
from the provinces of Maximin. But of this there is no evidence. We
imagine rather that this circular was merely a preliminary sharpening of
the sword in order to keep the Christians in a due state of
apprehension.

Maximin, however, continued his anti-Christian propaganda with unabated
zeal, and with greater cunning and better devised system than before.
His court at Antioch was the gathering place of all the priests,
magicians, and thaumaturgists of the East, who found in him a generous
patron. We hear of a new deity being invented by Theotecnus, or rather
of an old deity being invested with new attributes. Zeus Philios, or
Jupiter the Friendly was the name of this god, to whom a splendid statue
was erected in Antioch, and to whose shrine a new priesthood, with new
rites, was solemnly dedicated. The god was provided with an attendant
oracle to speak in his name; what more natural than that the first
response should order the banishment of all Christians from the city?
Very noteworthy, too, was the re-appearance of a vigorous anti-Christian
literature. Maximin set on his pamphleteers to write libellous parodies
of the Christian doctrines and encouraged the more serious
controversialists on the pagan side to attack the Christian religion
wherever it was most vulnerable. The most famous of these productions
was one which bore the name of _The Acts of Pilate_ and purported to be
a relation by Pilate himself of the life and conduct of Christ. It was
really an old pamphlet rewritten and brought up to date, full, as
Eusebius says, of all conceivable blasphemy against Christ and reducing
Him to the level of a common malefactor. Maximin welcomed it with
delight. He had thousands of copies written and distributed; extracts
were cut on brass and stone and posted up in conspicuous places; the
work was appointed to be read frequently in public, and—what shews most
of all the fury and cunning of Maximin—it was appointed to be used as a
text-book in schools throughout Asia and Egypt. There was no more subtle
method of training bigots and poisoning the minds of the younger
generation amongst Christianity. Some of the Emperor’s devices, however,
were much more crude. For example, the military commandant of Damascus
arrested half a dozen notorious women of the town and threatened them
with torture if they did not confess that they were Christians, and that
they had been present at ceremonies of the grossest impurity in the
Christian assemblies. Maximin ordered the precious confession thus
extorted to be set up in a prominent place in every township.

But the Emperor was not merely a furious bigot. There is evidence that
he fully recognised the wonderful strength of the Christian
ecclesiastical organisation and contrasted it with the essential
weakness of the pagan system. In this he anticipated the Emperor Julian.
Paganism was anything but a church. Its framework was loose and
disconnected. There were various colleges of priests, some of which were
powerful and had branches throughout the Empire, but there was little
connection between them save that of a common ritual. There was also
little doctrine save in the special mysteries, where membership was
preceded by formal initiation. Maximin sought to institute a pagan
clergy based upon the Christian model, with a definite hierarchy from
the highest to the lowest. There were already chief priests of the
various provinces, who had borne for long the titles of Asiarch,
Pontarch, Galatarch, and Ciliciarch in their respective provinces.
Maximin developed their powers on the model of those of the Christian
bishops, giving them authority over subordinates and entrusting them
with the duty of seeing that the sacrifices were duly and regularly
offered. He tried to raise the standard of the priesthood by choosing
its members from the best families, by insisting on the priests wearing
white flowing robes, by giving them a guard of soldiers and full powers
of search and arrest.

Evidently, Maximin was something more than the lustful, bloodthirsty
tyrant who appears in the pages of Lactantius and the ecclesiastical
historians. He dealt the Church much shrewder—though not less
ineffectual—blows than his colleagues in persecution. With such an
Emperor another appeal to the faggot and the sword was inevitable, and
the death of Galerius was the signal for a renewal of the persecution.
This time Maximin struck directly at the most conspicuous figures in the
Christian Church and counted among his victims Peter, the Patriarch of
Alexandria, and three other Egyptian bishops—Methodus, Bishop of Tyre,
Basiliscus, Bishop of Comana in Bithynia, and Silvanus, Bishop of Emesa
in Phœnicia. In Egypt the persecution was so sharp that it drew Saint
Antony from his hermit’s cell in the desert to succour the unfortunate
in Alexandria. He escaped with his life, probably because he was
overlooked or disdained, or because the mighty influence which he was to
exercise upon the Church had not yet declared itself. This persecution
was followed by a terrible drought, famine, and pestilence.
Eusebius,[69] in a vigorous chapter, describes how parents were driven
by hunger to sell not only their lands but also their children, how
whole families were wiped out, how the pestilence seemed to mark down
the rich for its special vengeance, and how in certain townships the
inhabitants were driven to kill all the dogs within their walls that
they might not feed on the bodies of the unburied dead. Amid these
horrors the Christians alone remained calm. They alone displayed the
supreme virtue of charity in tending the suffering and ministering to
the dying. From the pagans themselves, says Eusebius, was wrung the
unwilling admission that none but the Christians, in the sharp test of
adversity, shewed real piety and genuine worship of God.[70]

-----

Footnote 69:

  _Hist. Eccles._, ix., 8.

Footnote 70:

  Εὐσεβεῖς τε καὶ μόνους θεοσεβεῖς τούτους ἀληθῶς, πρὸς αυτῶν
  ἐλεγχθέντας τῶν πραγμάτων, ὁμολογεῖν.

-----

Maximin’s reign, however, was fast drawing to a close. After becoming
involved in a war with Tiridates of Armenia, from which he emerged with
little credit to himself, he entered into an alliance with Maxentius,
the ruler of Italy, against Constantine and Licinius, but did not invade
the territory of the latter until Maxentius had already been overthrown.
As we have seen, Maximin was utterly routed and, after a hurried flight
to beyond the Taurus, he there, according to Eusebius,[71] gathered
together his erstwhile trusted priests, thaumaturgists, and soothsayers,
and slew them for the proved falsehood of their prophecy. More
significant still, when he found that his doom was certain, he issued a
last religious edict in the vain hope of appeasing the resentment of the
Christians and their God. The document is worth giving in full:

  “The Emperor Cæsar Caius Valerius Maximinus, Germanicus, Sarmaticus,
  pious, happy, invincible, august.

  “We have always endeavoured by all means in our power to secure the
  advantage of those who dwell in our provinces, and to contribute by
  our benefits at once to the prosperity of the State and to the
  well-being of every citizen. Nobody can be ignorant of this, and we
  are confident that each one who puts his memory to the test, is
  persuaded of its truth.

  “We found, however, some time ago that, in virtue of the edict
  published by our divine parents, Diocletian and Maximian, ordering the
  destruction of the places where the Christians were in the habit of
  assembling, many excesses and acts of violence had been committed by
  our public servants and that the evil was being increasingly felt by
  our subjects every day, inasmuch as their goods were, under this
  pretext, unwarrantably seized.

  “Consequently, we declared last year by letters addressed to the
  Governors of the Provinces that if any one wished to attach himself to
  this sect and practise this religion, he should be allowed to please
  himself without interference and no one should say him nay, and the
  Christians should enjoy complete liberty and be sheltered from all
  fear and all suspicion.

  “However, we have not been able entirely to shut our eyes to the fact
  that certain of the magistrates misunderstood our instructions, with
  the result that our subjects distrusted our words and were nervous
  about resuming the religion of their choice. That is why, in order to
  do away with all disquietude and equivocation for the future, we have
  resolved to publish this edict, by which all are to understand that
  those who wish to follow this sect have full liberty to do so, and
  that, by the indulgence of our Majesty, each man may practise the
  religion he prefers or that to which he is accustomed.

  “It is also permitted to them to rebuild the houses of the LORD.
  Moreover, so that there may be no mistake about the scope of our
  indulgence, we have been pleased to order that all houses and places,
  formerly belonging to the Christians, which have either been
  confiscated by the order of our divine parents, or occupied by any
  municipality, or sold or given away, shall return to their original
  ownership, so that all men may recognise our piety and our
  solicitude.”

-----

Footnote 71:

  _Hist. Eccles._, ix., 10.

-----

The bigot must have been brought very low and reduced to the last depths
of despair before he set his seal to such a document as this. One can
see that it was drawn up by Maximin with a copy of the Edict of Milan
before him, and that he hoped, by this tardy and clumsy recognition of
the principle of absolute liberty of conscience for all men, to make the
Christians forget his brutalities. Doubtless, the Christians of Cilicia
and Syria looked to Constantine in far off Gaul as a model prince and
emperor, and heard with joy of the steady advance of Constantine’s ally,
Licinius. The latter would come in their eyes in the guise of a
liberator, and prayers for his success would be offered up in every
Christian church of the persecuted East. Maximin sought to repurchase
their loyalty: it was too late. His absurd pretext that his orders had
been misunderstood by his provincial governors would deceive no one. He
had been the shrewdest enemy with whom the Church had had to cope; his
edict of recantation was read with chilly suspicion or cold contempt,
which was changed into hymns of rejoicing when the Christians heard that
the tyrant had poisoned himself and died in agony, while his conqueror,
Licinius, had drowned the fallen Empress in the Orontes and put to death
her children, a boy of eight and a girl of seven. Those who had suffered
persecution for ten years may be pardoned their exultation that there
was no one left alive to perpetuate the names of their persecutors.[72]

-----

Footnote 72:

  _Hoc modo deus universos persecutores nominis sui debellavit, ut eorum
  nec stirps nec radix ulla remaneret._—_De Mort. Persec._, c. 49.

-----

Throughout this time the West had escaped very lightly. Even Maxentius
had begun his reign by seeking to secure the good-will of the
Christians. Eusebius, indeed, makes the incredible statement[73] that in
order to please and flatter the Roman people he pretended to embrace the
Christian faith and “assumed the mask of piety.” Probably all he did was
to leave the Christians of Rome in peace. The chair of St. Peter had
remained empty for four years after the death of Bishop Marcellinus. In
308 Marcellus was elected to fill it and the Church was organised
afresh. But it was rent with internal dissensions. There was a large
section which insisted that the brethren who had been found weak during
the recent persecution should be received back into the fold without
penance and reproach. Marcellus stood out for discipline; the quarrel
became so exacerbated that Maxentius exiled the Bishop, who shortly
afterwards died. A priest named Eusebius was then chosen Pontiff, but
the schismatics elected a Pontiff of their own, Heraclius by name, and
the rival partisans quarrelled and fought in the streets. Maxentius,
with strict impartiality, exiled both. The record of this schism is
preserved in the curious epitaph composed by Pope Damasus for the tomb
of Eusebius:

  “Heraclius forbade the lapsed to bewail their sins; Eusebius taught
  them to repent and weep for their wrong-doing. The people were divided
  into factions, raging and furious: then came sedition, bloodshed, war,
  discord, strife.[74] Forthwith both were driven away by the cruelty of
  the tyrant. While the Bishop preserved intact the bonds of peace, he
  endured his exile gladly on the Trinacrian shores, knowing that God
  was his judge, and so passed from this world and from life.”

-----

Footnote 73:

  _Hist. Eccles._, viii., 14.

Footnote 74:

  _Scinditur in partes populus gliscente furore; Seditio, cædes, bellum,
  discordia, lites._

-----

On the confession of Damasus himself, the state of the Roman Church
warranted the interference of Maxentius if it resulted in “sedition,
bloodshed, war, discord, and strife,” and the “cruelty of the tyrant” in
this particular case is not proven. Eusebius died in Sicily in 310; in
the following year Miltiades was elected Bishop, and Maxentius restored
to the Roman Christians their churches and cemeteries, which for eight
years had been in the hands of the civil authorities.

The overthrow of Maxentius by Constantine, the destruction of Maximin by
Licinius, the publication of the Edict of Milan, and the apparent
sincerity of the two Emperors in their anxiety to restore peace and
security, were naturally hailed by the Christians throughout the Empire
with the liveliest joy. On every side stately churches began to rise
from the ground, and as the triumph of Christianity over its enemies was
incontestable, converts came flocking in by the thousand to receive what
Eusebius calls “the mysterious signs of the Saviour’s Passion.” The only
troublers of the Church were members of the Church herself, like the
extravagant Donatists in Africa. The canons of the Council of Ancyra,
which was held soon after the death of Maximin, shew how the
ecclesiastical authorities imposed varying penances upon those who had
shrunk from their duty as soldiers of Christ in the recent persecution,
varying, that is to say, according to the extent of their shortcomings.
Some had apostatised and themselves turned persecutors; some had
sacrificed at the first command; some had endured prison, but had shrunk
from torture; some had suffered torture, but quailed before the stake;
some had bribed the executioners only to make a show of torturing them;
some had attended the sacrificial feasts, but had substituted other
meats. The punishments range from ten years of probation and every
degree of penance, down to a few months’ deprivation of the comforts and
communions of the Church.

New dangers, however, speedily threatened. Constantine and Licinius
quarrelled between themselves and, after two stubborn battles, agreed
upon a fresh division of the world. For eight years, from 315 to 323,
this partition lasted, but, as the Emperors again drifted apart,
Licinius became more and more anti-Christian. His rivalry with
Constantine accounts for the change. Licinius suspected Constantine of
intriguing with his Christian subjects just as Constantine regarded the
pagan element in his own provinces as the natural focus of disaffection
against his rule. Licinius had no definite Christian beliefs; he had
been the friend and nominee of Galerius; and, like Galerius, he never
got rid of the suspicion that the Christian assemblies were a danger to
the public security. The Christians had aided him against Maximin: he
thought they would do the same for Constantine against himself.
Eusebius[75] likens him to a twisted snake, wriggling along and
concealing its poisoned fangs, not daring to attack the Church openly
for fear of Constantine, but dealing it constant and insidious blows.

-----

Footnote 75:

  _De Vita Constant._, ii., 1.

-----

The simile was well chosen. Licinius seems to have opened his campaign
against the Christians by forbidding the bishops in his provinces to
leave their dioceses and take part in their usual synods and councils.
They were to remain at home, he said, and mind their own business and
not plot treason against their Emperor under the pretext of perfecting
the discipline of the Church. Another edict, which came with poor grace
from a man whose own excesses were notorious, forbade Christian men and
women to meet for common worship in their churches: they were to worship
apart, so that their morals might not be exposed to danger. On the same
pretext, bishops and priests were only allowed to give teaching and
consolation to their own sex; Christian women must find women teachers
and advisers. Eusebius tells us[76] that these edicts excited universal
ridicule. It was too late to revive the old stories of gross immorality
taking place at the communion services, and there was fresh cause for
mocking laughter when Licinius forbade the Christians to assemble in
their churches within the towns and ordered them to go outside the gates
and meet, if they must meet, in the open air. This was necessary, he
said, on the grounds of public health; the atmosphere beyond the gates
was purer. Licinius’s theory of hygiene was perfectly sound; its
application was ludicrous.

-----

Footnote 76:

  _De Vita Constant._, i., 53.

-----

These were the first steps leading, as his subjects must have known only
too well, straight to persecution. After a time Licinius threw over
bodily the Edict of Milan. He purged his court and his army in the old
way. The choice was sacrifice or dismissal, and some pretext was usually
made to tack on to official dismissal a confiscation of goods. Licinius,
says Eusebius, thirsted for gold like a very Tantalus. Aurelius Victor
says[77] he had all the mean, sordid avarice of a peasant. And the
Christians, of course, were fair game. He pillaged their churches,
robbed them of their goods, sentenced them to exile and to the mines, or
ruined them just as effectually by insisting on their becoming
magistrates. Bloodshed followed, and Licinius aimed his severest blows
at the bishops. He accused them of omitting his name in their prayers
for the welfare of the Emperor and the State, though they carefully
remembered that of Constantine; and, if none were actually put to death,
many suffered imprisonment, torture, and mutilation. The story of the
martyrs and confessors in the Licinian persecution is very like that of
those who suffered under Diocletian and Maximin. But the fate of the
forty soldier martyrs of the Twelfth Legion (_Fulminata_) deserves
special mention. They had refused to sacrifice, and, by order of their
general, were stripped naked and ordered to remain throughout a winter’s
night upon a frozen pond, exposed to the elements. At the side of the
pond was a building, where the water for the town baths was heated.
Apparently no guard was kept. The martyrs were free to make their way to
the warmth and shelter if they wished it, but only at the price of
apostasy. One of them, after enduring bravely for many hours, crawled
towards the warmth, but died of exhaustion as soon as he had crossed the
threshold. The sight so affected the pagan attendant of the bath that he
flung off his clothes in uncontrollable emotion, and with the shout, “I
too am a Christian,” took the place of the weak brother who had just
lost the martyr’s crown. In the morning the forty were found dead and
their bodies were burnt at the stake. It was said that one of them was
found to be still breathing, and the executioners put him apart from the
rest. His mother, afraid lest he should miss entering heaven by the side
of his brave companions in glory, herself placed him in the cart to be
borne to the stake.

-----

Footnote 77:

  _Huic parcimonia et ea quidem agrestis._

-----

Another moving story of the Licinian persecution is that of Gordius of
Cæsarea, in Cappadocia. He had fled from his home to live the life of a
hermit among the mountains, when suddenly an impulse came upon him to
return and testify to the truth. The people were all assembled in the
Circus, intent upon some public spectacle, when an uncouth figure was
seen to move slowly down the marble steps and then pass out into the
centre of the arena. A hush fell upon the multitude, as the hermit was
recognised and dragged before the tribunal of the Governor. “I have
come,” he said, “to shew how little I think of your edicts and to
confess my faith in Jesus Christ, and I have chosen this moment, O
Governor, because I know your cruelty, which surpasses that of all other
men.” They put him to the torture: he delighted in his pain. “The more
you torture me,” he said, “the greater will be my reward. There is a
bargain between God and us. Each pang and torment that we suffer here
will be rewarded there by increased glory and happiness.”

Licinius had thus, like Maximin, made himself the champion of the old
religion and the religious reactionaries. When in 323 war again broke
out between himself and Constantine, it was as the professed enemy of
Christianity and its God that he took the field. The war was a war of
ambition on both sides, but it was also a war between the two religions.
We have mentioned elsewhere the oath which Licinius took before the
battle, when he vowed that if the gods gave him the victory he would
extirpate root and branch the Christian religion. Fate gave him no
opportunity to fulfil his promise. Defeated at Adrianople and at
Chrysopolis, and then exiled to Thessalonica, Licinius had not many
months to live. Before he died he saw his pagan councillors pay for
their folly with their lives and heard the rejoicings of the Christians
of the East at the fall of the last of their pagan persecutors. The
Church at last had won her freedom and was to suffer at the hands of the
State no more. Eusebius has fortunately preserved for us the text of the
edict addressed by Constantine after his victory to the inhabitants of
Palestine, recalling from exile, from the mines, and from servitude the
Christian victims of the recent persecution, restoring their property to
those who had suffered confiscation, offering to soldiers who had been
expelled in disgrace from the army either a return to their old rank or
the certificate of honourable discharge, and giving back to the churches
without diminution the corporate possessions of which they had been
robbed. Constantine not merely passed the sponge over the administrative
acts of Licinius: he granted large subsidies to the bishops who had
suffered at the hands of “the dragon,” and himself wrote to “his dearest
beloved brother,” Eusebius of Cæsarea, urging him to see that the
bishops, elders, and deacons in his neighbourhood were “active and
enthusiastic in the work of the Church.”[78]

-----

Footnote 78:

  σπουδάζειν περὶ τὰ ἔργα τῶν ἐκκλησιῶν.—_De Vita Const._, ii., 46.

-----

------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER IX
                     CONSTANTINE AND THE DONATISTS


If Constantine hoped that by the Edict of Milan he had stilled the voice
of religious controversy, he was speedily disillusioned. He was now to
find the peace of the Church violently disturbed by those belonging to
her communions, and the hatreds of Christians against one another almost
as menacing to the tranquillity of the imperial rule as had been the
bitter strife of pagan and Christian. In the same year (313) he received
an appeal from certain African bishops imploring him to appoint a
commission of Gallican bishops to settle certain difficulties which had
arisen in Africa. The Donatist schism, which was destined to last for
more than a century, had begun.

Its rise may be traced in a few words. Northern Africa had long been the
home of a perfervid religious fanaticism. Montanism and Novatianism had
found there their most violent adherents, to whom there was something
peculiarly attractive in extravagant protest against the laxity or the
liberalism of the Church elsewhere, and in emphatic insistence on the
narrowness of the way which leads to salvation. Those who set up the
most impossible standard of attainment; those who demanded from the
Christian the most absolute spotlessness of life; those who insisted
most strenuously on the enormity of sin and made fewest allowances for
the weakness of humanity—these were surest of being heard most gladly in
northern Africa. During the persecution of Diocletian and Maximian many
of the African Christians had ostentatiously courted martyrdom.
According to Catholic authors, such martyrdom had been sought not only
by saints, but by men of immoral and dissolute life, who thought to
purge the stains of a sinful career by dying in the odour of sanctity.
Others, again, while not prepared to die for the faith, were not
unwilling to suffer imprisonment for it, inasmuch as their
fellow-Christians looked well after the creature comforts of those who
languished in gaol. Mensurius, Bishop of Carthage and Primate of Africa,
strongly disapproved of these proceedings. He discountenanced the
fanaticism, which he knew to be the besetting weakness of his people;
refused to recognise as martyrs those who had provoked death; and
checked, as far as possible, the indiscriminate charity of his flock. If
his critics are to be believed, Mensurius had resort to a trick in order
to save the Holy Books of his own cathedral and thus escape the choice
of being a _traditor_ or of suffering for conscience’ sake. It was said
that when the officers of the civil power demanded the Holy Books in his
keeping, he handed over to them a number of heretical volumes, which
were at once burnt, while the Sacred Scriptures were carefully
concealed. It is not surprising, therefore, to find that Mensurius was
charged with actual persecution of those Christians who had a sterner
sense of duty than himself.

It is manifest, however, from what took place at a synod of bishops held
in Cirta in 305 that many of the natural leaders of the African Church
had quailed before the persecution of Diocletian. They had assembled,
under the presidency of Secundus, Bishop of Tigisis and Primate of
Numidia, in order to fill the vacant see of Cirta. Secundus opened the
proceedings by inviting all present to clear themselves of the charge of
having surrendered their Holy Books, and began to put the question
directly to each in turn. Donatus of Mascula returned an evasive answer,
and said that he was responsible only to God. Many pleaded that they had
substituted other books for the Scriptures; Victor of Russicas alone
confessed that he had handed over the Four Gospels. “Valentinianus, the
Curator, himself compelled me to send them,” he said; “pardon me this
fault, even as God pardons me.” Then came the turn of Purpurius, Bishop
of Limata. Secundus accused him not of being a _traditor_, but of the
murder of two of his nephews. Purpurius stormed with rage. He vowed that
he would not be browbeaten, and declared that Secundus was no better
than his fellows and had purchased his own immunity, like the rest of
them, by surrendering the Scriptures. As for murdering his nephews, the
charge was true. “I did kill them,” he said, “and I kill all who stand
in my way.” This candid avowal seems to have occasioned no surprise
among the members of this extraordinary synod; they were all too
indignant with Secundus for raising inconvenient questions and
pretending to a sanctity beyond his colleagues. Eventually, another
nephew of Secundus threatened that they would all withdraw from his
communion and make a schism (_recedere et schisma facere_), unless he
let the matter drop. “What business is it of yours what each has done?”
asked the outspoken nephew. “It is to God that each must tender his
account.” The president thereupon drew in his horns, pronounced the
acquittal of the accused, and with a general murmur of “_Deo gratias_,”
they proceeded to the election of a bishop. Their choice fell upon
Sylvanus, himself a _traditor_, much, it is said, to the indignation of
the people of Cirta, who raised cries of, “He is a _traditor_: let
another be elected. We want our bishop to be pure and upright.” Sylvanus
had surrendered, without even a show of compulsion, one of the sacred
silver lamps from the altar of his church. It is more than possible that
the report of the proceedings at this synod, which is found only in
works written specifically—but by episcopal hands—against the Donatists,
is highly exaggerated. Among the bishops present at Cirta were those
who, a few years later, were the principal leaders of the Donatist
schism. But, even when all allowances are made for party colouring, the
picture it gives of the Numidian Church is far from flattering.

During the life of Mensurius overt schism was avoided, though the Church
of Carthage was by no means untroubled. For even before the persecution
broke out, a certain lady named Lucilla had fallen under the censure of
the ecclesiastical authorities, and had left the fold in high dudgeon.
She became the lady patroness of the malcontent Christians of Carthage
and the prime mover in any ecclesiastical intrigue that was afoot. She
had been wont, before taking the Eucharist, to kiss the doubtful relic
of a martyr, and she had set greater store on the efficacy of this
unregistered bone than on the virtues of the sacred chalice. It was not,
of course, for relic worship that Cæcilianus, the Archdeacon, rebuked
her, for the early Church everywhere acknowledged its intercessional
value, and it was the usual practice for an officiating priest, before
celebrating, to kiss the relics that were placed on the high altar.
Lucilla was reproved because her relic was not recognised by the
Church.[79] It was doubtful whether it had belonged to a martyr at all,
and, in any case, its identity had not been duly authenticated. But
before Mensurius could deal with this revolted daughter the tempest of
persecution broke over Africa. The angry and insulting epithets with
which the Catholic historians have loaded Lucilla are perhaps the best
testimony to her ability and influence. She was very rich and a born
intriguante (_pecuniosissima et factiosissima_), and as she had what she
considered to be a personal insult to avenge, she was as willing as she
was competent to cause trouble and mischief.

-----

Footnote 79:

  _Os nescio cujus hominis mortui, et si martyris, sed necdum
  vindicati._

-----

Shortly before the overthrow of Maxentius, one of Mensurius’s deacons
issued a defamatory libel against the Emperor and then took sanctuary at
Carthage. The Bishop refused to surrender him and was peremptorily
summoned to Rome. Evidently expecting that the Emperor would condemn him
and order the confiscation of the holy vessels of his church, Mensurius
secretly handed them over to the custody of certain elders in whose
honesty he thought he could place implicit reliance. But he took the
precaution—a wise one, as it subsequently proved—to make an inventory,
which he gave to an old woman, with instructions that if he did not
return she was to hand it to his lawfully appointed successor. Mensurius
then went to Rome, succeeded in convincing Maxentius of his innocence,
but died on the way home, in 311 A.D. As soon as the news of his death
reached Carthage, the round of intrigue began. According to Optatus, two
deacons named Botrus and Celestius, each hoping to secure his own
elevation, hurried on the election, in which the Numidian bishops were
not invited to take part. The passage is obscure, for Optatus goes on to
say that the choice fell upon Cæcilianus, who was elected “by the
suffrages of the whole people,” and was consecrated in due form by
Felix, Bishop of Aptunga. When Cæcilianus called upon the elders to
restore the Church ornaments, they quitted the Church—the suggestion of
the Catholic historian is that they had hoped to steal them—and attached
themselves to the faction of Lucilla, together with Botrus and
Celestius, whom St. Augustine roundly denounces as “impious and
sacrilegious thieves.” The schism was now complete. It had its origin,
says Optatus,[80] in the fury of a headstrong woman; it was nurtured by
intrigue and drew its strength from jealous greed.

-----

Footnote 80:

  _Schisma igitur illo tempore confusæ mulieris iracundia peperit,
  ambitus nutrivit, avaritia roboravit._

-----

Cæcilianus’ position was speedily challenged. The malcontents appealed
to the Numidian bishops, urging them to declare in synod whether the
election was valid. Accordingly, the Numidian Primate, Secundus of
Tigisis, came with seventy other bishops to the capital, where they were
received with open arms by the opposition party. Cæcilianus seated
himself on his throne in the cathedral and waited for the bishops to
appear. When they did not come he sent a message saying, “If any one has
any accusation to bring against me, let him come to make good the
charge.”, But the Numidian bishops preferred to meet elsewhere within
closed doors and finally declared the election of Cæcilianus invalid on
the ground that he had been consecrated by a _traditor_. To this
Cæcilianus replied that, if they thought Felix of Aptunga had been a
_traditor_, they had better consecrate him themselves, as though he were
still a simple deacon—a sarcasm which roused the violent Purpurius to
exclaim: “Let him come here to receive the laying on of hands, and we
will strike off his head by way of penance.” They then elected
Majorinus, who had been one of Cæcilianus’ readers and was now a member
of Lucilla’s household. There were thus two rival bishops of Carthage.
Those who supported Cæcilianus called themselves the Catholic party;
their rivals, until the death of Majorinus in 315, were known as the
party of Majorinus, though their moving spirit seems to have been,
first, Donatus, the Bishop of Casæ Nigræ, and, afterwards, Donatus,
surnamed Magnus, who gave his name to the schism.

Though Africa was thus split into two camps, there is no evidence that
Majorinus was recognised by any of the churches of Europe, Egypt, or
Asia. These all looked to Cæcilianus as the rightful bishop, and so,
when Constantine, fresh from his victory over Maxentius, wrote to the
African churches in 312 to announce his intention of making a handsome
present of money to their clergy, it was to Cæcilianus that the letter
was addressed, and the schismatics were rebuked in the sharpest terms.
The letter ran as follows:

             “CONSTANTINE AUGUSTUS TO CÆCILIANUS, BISHOP OF
                               CARTHAGE.

  “Inasmuch as it has pleased us to contribute something towards the
  necessary expenses of certain ministers of the lawful and most holy
  Catholic religion throughout all the provinces of Africa, Numidia, and
  both Mauretanias, I have sent letters to Ursus, the most noble
  governor of Africa, and have instructed him to see that three thousand
  purses are paid over to your Reverence. When, therefore, you have
  received the above mentioned sum, you will take care that the money is
  divided among the clergy already spoken of according to the
  instructions sent to you by Hosius.

  “If you consider this amount insufficient for the purpose of
  testifying my regard for all of you in Africa, you are to ask without
  delay Heraclidas, the procurator of the imperial domains, for whatever
  you may think necessary. For I have personally instructed him that
  whatever sum your Reverence asks for is to be paid without hesitation.

  “And since I have heard that certain persons of ill-balanced mind
  (_quosdam non satis compositæ mentis_) are acting in such a manner as
  to corrupt the people of the most holy and Catholic Church with wicked
  and adulterous falsehoods (_improba et adulterina falsitate_), I would
  have you know that I have given verbal instructions to Anulinus, the
  proconsul, and to Patricius, the vicar of the præfects, to include
  among their other duties a sharp lookout in this matter, and, if this
  movement continues, not to neglect or ignore it.

  “Consequently, if you find persons of this character persevering in
  their mad folly (_in hac amentia perseverare_) you will at once
  approach the above mentioned judges and lay the matter before them,
  that they may punish the culprits (_in eos animadvertant_) in
  accordance with my personal instructions.

  “May the divinity of the Supreme God (_Divinitas summi Dei_) preserve
  you for many years.”

In conjunction with this must be taken the letter addressed by
Constantine to Anulinus, the proconsul of Africa:

  “Greetings to our best beloved Anulinus! Inasmuch as it is abundantly
  proven that the neglect of the religion which preserves the greatest
  reverence for divine majesty has reduced the State to the direst
  peril, while its careful and due observance has brought the most
  splendid prosperity to the Roman name and unspeakable felicity to all
  things mortal, thanks to divine goodness, we have resolved, best
  beloved Anulinus, that those, who with due righteousness of life and
  continual observance of the law, perform their ministry in this divine
  religion shall reap the reward of their labours.

  “Wherefore, it is our wish that all who, in the province under your
  care and in the Catholic Church over which Cæcilianus presides,
  minister to this most holy religion—those, viz., whom people are wont
  to call the clergy—shall be absolved[81] from all public duties of any
  kind, lest, by some slip or grave mischance, they may be distracted
  from the duties they owe to the Supreme Divinity, and that they may do
  the better service to their own ritual without any disturbing
  influences.

  “Inasmuch as these people display the deepest reverence for the Divine
  Will, it seems to me that they ought to receive the greatest reward
  the State can bestow.”

-----

Footnote 81:

  _Ab omnibus omnino publicis functionibus immunes volumus conservari._

-----

[Illustration:

  THE AMPHITHEATRE AT ARLES.
  EXTERIOR VIEW. PRESENT DAY.
]

These are two remarkable letters. They clearly prove that the schism in
the African Church was making a stir outside Africa, and that the
Emperor had been instructed in the main points at issue. The new convert
had cast his all-powerful influence upon the Catholic side—an Emperor
would naturally be biassed against schism—and he was prepared to utilise
the civil power in order to compel the return of the schismatics to
obedience. So little observant was he of his own edict of toleration
that he was prepared to use force to secure uniformity within the
Church! Constantine, indeed, reveals himself not merely as a Christian,
but as a Catholic Christian; his bounty is reserved for the Catholic
clergy, and the immunity from public duties involving heavy expense is
reserved similarly for them alone. Nevertheless, the party of Majorinus
petitioned the Emperor to appoint a commission of Gallican bishops to
enquire into and report upon their quarrel with the Bishop of Carthage.

  “We appeal to you, Constantine, best of Emperors, since you come of a
  just stock, for your father was alone among his colleagues in not
  putting the persecution into force, and Gaul was thus spared that
  frightful crime. Strife has arisen between us and other African
  bishops, and we pray that your piety may lead you to grant us judges
  from Gaul.”

    (Signed by Lucianus, Dignus, Nasutius, Capito, Fidentius, and other
      bishops of the party of Majorinus.)

This petition was forwarded by Anulinus, the proconsul, whose covering
letter, dated April, 313, describes the opponents of Cæcilianus as being
resolute in refusing obedience. The Emperor, who was in Gaul when the
petition reached him, granted the desired commission and instructed the
bishops of Cologne, Autun, and Arles to repair to Rome. Cæcilianus was
instructed to attend with the bishops belonging to his party; ten of the
rival bishops attached to Majorinus were to appear in the character of
accusers, and for judges there were to be Miltiades, Bishop of Rome, the
three Gallican bishops, and fifteen other Italian bishops selected by
Miltiades from all parts of the peninsula. They met in October in the
palace of the Empress Fausta, on the Lateran. Constantine had already
written a letter to Miltiades, in which he deplored the existence of
such serious schism in the populous African provinces, which, he said,
had spontaneously surrendered to him, under the influence of divine
Providence, as a reward for his devotion to religion. He, therefore,
looked to the bishops to find a reasonable solution.

At the first sitting the credentials of the accusers of Cæcilianus were
examined, and some were disqualified on the score of bad character.
Then, when the witnesses were called, those who had been brought to Rome
by Majorinus and Donatus avowed that they had nothing to say against
Cæcilianus. The case of the petitioners practically collapsed, for the
judges refused to listen to unsubstantiated gossip and scandal, and
Donatus in the end declined to attend the enquiry, fearing lest he
should be condemned on his own admissions. Later on, a second list of
charges was handed in, but was not supported by a single witness, and
then finally the commission passed on to enquire into the proceedings of
the Council of the seventy bishops who had declared the election of
Cæcilianus invalid. They had no difficulty in reaching a general
decision.

The accusations against Cæcilianus had clearly broken down and the
verdict of Miltiades began in the following terms: “Inasmuch as it is
shewn that Cæcilianus is not accused by those who came with Donatus, as
they had promised to do, and Donatus has in no particular established
his charges against him, I find that Cæcilianus should be maintained in
the communion of his church with all his privileges intact.” St.
Augustine warmly eulogises the admirable moderation displayed by
Miltiades, who, in the hope of restoring unity, offered to send letters
of communion to all who had been consecrated by Majorinus, proposing
that where there were two rival bishops, the senior in time of
consecration should be confirmed in the appointment, while another see
should be found for the other. But the Donatists would listen to no
compromise. They appealed again to the Emperor, who, with a very
pardonable outburst of wrath, denounced the rabid and implacable hatreds
of these turbulent Africans.

Knowing that the quarrel would be resumed in full blast if Cæcilianus
and Donatus returned to Africa, Constantine detained them both in Italy.
Two Italian bishops, Eunomius and Olympius, were meanwhile sent to
Carthage to act as peacemakers and explain to the African congregations
which was the true Catholic Church. It was none other, they said, than
the Church which was diffused throughout the whole world, and they
insisted that the judgment of the nineteen bishops was one from which
there could be no appeal. The Donatists, however, retorted that if the
verdict of nineteen bishops was sacred, a verdict of seventy must be
even more so. They resisted the overtures of their visitors, and thus,
when Donatus and Cæcilianus in turn reappeared on the scene, the fires
of partisanship did not lack for fuel. It was no longer possible for the
Donatists to press for a rehearing on the ground of the personal
character of Cæcilianus. They had had their chance in Rome to impugn the
Primate’s character, and had failed. They now shifted their ground and
based their claim upon the fact that Felix of Aptunga, who had
consecrated Cæcilianus, was a _traditor_, and the consecration was,
therefore, invalid.

But was Felix a _traditor_? This was a plain, straightforward question,
involving no disputed point of doctrine. Constantine, therefore, wrote
to Ælianus, Anulinus’s successor as proconsul of Africa, instructing him
to hold a public enquiry into the life and character of Felix of
Aptunga. Part of the official report has come down to us. Among the
witnesses were those who had been the chief magistrates of Aptunga at
the time of the persecution. These must all have been acutely conscious
of the curiously anomalous position in which they stood. If they found
that Felix had delivered up the Holy Books and utensils of the church,
their verdict would acquit him of having broken the law of Diocletian,
but would convict him of being a _traditor_, and would, therefore, be
most unwelcome to the reigning sovereign. If they decided that Felix was
not a _traditor_, they would convict him of having broken the law of
Diocletian and convict themselves of having been lax administrators. The
favour of a living Prince, however, outweighed consideration for the
edicts of the dead, and the finding of the court was that “no volumes of
Holy Scripture had been discovered at Aptunga, or had been defiled, or
burnt.” It went on to say that Felix was not present in the city at the
time and that he had not temporised with his conscience (_neque
conscientiam accommodaverit_). He had been, in short, a godly bishop
(_religiosum episcopum_). The character of Felix was, therefore,
entirely rehabilitated and the validity of the consecration of
Cæcilianus was unimpaired.

[Illustration:

  THE AMPHITHEATRE AT ARLES AS IT APPEARED IN 1686.
  FROM AN OLD PRINT.
]

Then follows the Council of Arles in 314. With a forbearance rarely
displayed by a Roman emperor to inveterate and unreasoning opposition,
Constantine yielded to the clamour of the Donatists for a new council on
a broader and more authoritative scale than the commission of Italian
and Gallic bishops. But his disappointment and disgust are plainly to be
seen in his letter to the proconsul of Africa. Constantine began by
saying that he had fully expected that the decision of a commission of
bishops “of the very highest probity and competence” would have
commanded universal respect. He found, however, that the enemies of
Cæcilianus were as dogged and obstinate as ever, for they declared that
the bishops had simply shut themselves up in a room and judged the case
according to their personal predilections. They clamoured for another
council: he would grant them one which was to meet at Arles. Ælianus,
therefore, was to see that the public posting service throughout Africa
and Mauretania was placed at the disposal of Cæcilianus and his party
and of Donatus and his party, that they might travel with despatch and
cross into Spain by the quickest passage. Then the letter continued:

  “You will provide each separate Bishop with imperial letters entitling
  him to necessaries _en route_ (_tractorias litteras_) that he may
  arrive at Arles by the first of August, and you will also give all the
  bishops to understand that, before they leave their dioceses, they
  must make arrangements whereby, during their absence, reasonable
  discipline may be preserved and no chance revolt against authority or
  private altercations arise, for these bring the Church into great
  disgrace.

  “On the other matters at issue, I wish the enquiry to be full and
  complete, and an end to be reached,[82] as I hope it may be, when all
  those who are known to be at variance meet together in person. The
  quarrel may thus come to its natural and timely conclusion.

  “For as I am well assured that you are a worshipper of the supreme
  God, I confess to your Excellency that I consider it by no means
  lawful for me to ignore disputes and quarrels of such a nature as may
  excite the supreme Divinity to wrath, not only against the human race
  but against myself personally, into whose charge the Divinity by its
  Divine will has committed the governance of all that is on earth. In
  its just indignation, it might decree some ill against me.

  “And then only can I feel really and absolutely secure, and hope for
  an unfailing supply of all the richest blessings that flow from the
  instant goodness of Almighty God, when I shall see all mankind
  reverencing most Holy God in brotherly singleness of worship and in
  the lawful rites of our Catholic religion.”[83]

-----

Footnote 82:

  _De cætero plena cognitione suscepta finis adhibeatur._

Footnote 83:

  _Tunc enim revera et plenissime securus potero esse, cum universos
  sensero debito cultu catholicæ religionis sanctissimum Deum concordi
  observantiæ fraternitate venerari._

-----

Not only did Constantine write in this evidently sincere strain to the
proconsul of Africa; he also sent personal letters to the bishops whose
presence he desired. Eusebius has preserved the text of one of these,
which was addressed to Chrestus, Bishop of Syracuse, in which the
Emperor instructs him not to fail to reach Arles by August 1st, and bids
him secure a public vehicle from Latronianus, the Governor of Sicily,
and bring with him two presbyters of the second rank and three personal
servants. In obedience to Constantine’s wishes the bishops assembled at
Arles by the appointed day. It is not known how many were present. On
the fullest list of those who signed the canons there agreed to are
found the names of thirty-three bishops, thirteen presbyters,
twenty-three deacons, two readers, seven exorcists, and four
representatives of the Bishop of Rome. But from the extreme importance
attached to the council in later times it is certain that many more
attended, and the numbers have been variously estimated at from two to
six hundred. Not a single Eastern bishop was present. It was a council
of the West, representing the various provinces of Africa and Gaul,
Spain, Britain, Italy, Sicily, and Sardinia. From Britain came Eborius
of York, Restitutus of London, and Adelfius, the Bishop of a diocese
which has been variously interpreted as that of Colchester, Lincoln, and
Caerleon on Usk, with a presbyter named Sacerdos and a deacon called
Arminius. The Bishop of Rome, Sylvester, sent two presbyters and two
deacons.

The Council investigated with great minuteness the points raised by the
Donatists, but it is clear from the report sent to Sylvester that the
Donatists were no better supplied with evidence than they had been at
Rome. They simply repeated the old, unsubstantiated charge against
Cæcilianus that, as deacon, he had forcibly prevented the members of the
Church of Carthage from succouring their brethren in prison during the
persecution of Diocletian, and the disproved accusation against the
bishop who consecrated him that he had been a _traditor_. In a word,
they had absolutely no case and the Council of Arles endorsed the
verdict of the Council of Rome. The synodal letter to Sylvester began as
follows:

  “We, assembled in the city of Arles at the bidding of our most pious
  Emperor, in the common bonds of charity and unity, and knitted
  together by the ties of the mother Catholic Church, salute you, most
  holy Pope, with all due reverence. We have endured to listen to the
  accusations of desperate men, who have wrought grave injury to our law
  and tradition, men whom the present authority of our God and the rule
  of truth have so utterly disowned that there was no reason in their
  speeches, no bounds to the charges they brought, and no evidence or
  proof. And so, in the judgment of God and the Mother Church, which has
  known and attests them, they stand either condemned or rejected. Would
  that you, dearest brother, had found it possible to take part in such
  a gathering. We verily believe that in that case a more severe
  sentence would have been passed upon them, while if your judgment had
  coincided with ours, the joy of our assembly would have been
  intensified. But since you found it impossible to leave the chosen
  place where the Apostles make their daily home, and where their blood
  testifies ceaselessly to the glory of God, we thought, dearest
  brother, that we ought not simply to take in hand the subject for the
  discussion of which we had been called together, but also to consider
  other matters on our own account, and, as we have come from diverse
  provinces, diverse are the topics on which it seemed good to us to
  take counsel.”

The letter then enumerates the canons to which the signatories had
agreed and transmits them with the remark that as the Bishop of Rome’s
dioceses were wider than those of any other bishop, he was the most
suitable person to press the acceptance of these canons upon the Church.

It does not fall within the province of this book to discuss these
twenty-two canons; it will suffice to indicate the more important in the
briefest outline. The first suggested that Easter should be celebrated
on the same day throughout the whole world; the second insisted on the
clergy residing in the places to which they were ordained; the third
threatened with excommunication deserters from the army in times of
peace (_qui arma projiciunt in pace_). Of special importance in
connection with the questions raised by the Donatists were the canons
which prohibited the rebaptism of heretics if they had been baptised in
the name of the Holy Trinity; which recognised the validity of baptism
conferred by heretics, if conferred in the proper form; which ordered
that a new bishop should be consecrated by seven, or at least three,
bishops and never by a single one; which removed from the ministry all
those who were clearly proved to have been _traditores_ or to have
denounced their brother clergy, though, if these had ordained any others
to the ministry, the validity of the ordination was not to be
challenged. Worthy also of note is the canon removing from the communion
of the faithful all those engaged in any calling connected with the
arena or the stage, such as charioteers, jockeys, actors, pantomimists,
and the like, as long as they continue in professions which, in the eyes
of the Church, tend to the subversion of public morals; the canon which
excommunicated those of the clergy who practised usury, and the canon
exhorting those whose wives had been unfaithful not to marry again, as
they were legally entitled to do, during the lifetime of their guilty
partners.

If the Council of Arles was exceptionally fruitful in respect of new
rules passed for the improvement of ecclesiastical discipline, it proved
an entire failure in its primary object, that of putting an end to the
Donatist schism. The African malcontents still refused to acknowledge
Cæcilianus and had the effrontery to appeal to Constantine for yet
another investigation. As the bishops of the West were obstinately
prejudiced against them, they desired the Emperor to be gracious enough
to take charge of the enquiry himself. Constantine did not conceal his
anger in the important letter which he addressed to the bishops at
Arles, thanking them for their labours and giving them leave to return
to their homes. He wrote:

  “Certainly I cannot describe or enumerate the blessings which God in
  His heavenly bounty has bestowed upon me, His servant. I rejoice
  exceedingly, therefore, that after this most just enquiry you have
  recalled to better hope and future those whom the malignity of the
  Devil seemed to have seduced away by his miserable persuasion from the
  clearest light of the Catholic law. O truly conquering Providence of
  Christ, our Saviour, solicitous even for these who have deserted and
  turned their weapons against the truth, and joined themselves to the
  heathen. Yet even now, if they will truly believe and obey His most
  holy law, they will be able to see what forethought has been taken in
  their behalf by the will of God.

  “And I hoped, most holy brethren, to find such a disposition even in
  the stubbornest breasts. For not without just cause will the clemency
  of Christ depart from those, in whom it shines with a light so clear
  that we may perceive they are regarded with loathing by the Divine
  Providence. Such men must be bereft of reason, since with incredible
  arrogance they persuade themselves of the truth of things, of which it
  is neither meet to speak nor hear others speak, abandoning the
  righteous decisions which have been laid down. So persistent and
  ineradicable is their malignity. How often already have they
  shamelessly approached me, only to be crushed with the fitting
  response! Now they clamour for a judgment from me, who myself await
  the judgment of Christ. For I say that, as far as the truth is
  concerned, a judgment delivered by priests ought to be considered as
  valid as though Christ Himself were present and delivering
  judgment.[84] For priests can form no thought or judgment, unless what
  they are taught to utter by the admonitory voice of Christ.

  “What, then, can these malignant creatures be thinking of, creatures
  of the Devil, as I have truly said? They seek the things of this
  world, abandoning the things of Heaven. What sheer, rabid madness
  possesses them, that they have entered an appeal, as is wont to be
  done in mundane lawsuits?... What do these detractors of the law think
  of Christ their Saviour, if they refuse to acknowledge the judgment of
  Heaven and demand judgment from me? They are proven traitors; they
  have themselves convicted themselves of their crimes, without need of
  closer enquiry into them.... Do you, however, dearest brothers, return
  to your own homes, and be ye mindful of me that our Saviour may ever
  have mercy upon me.”

-----

Footnote 84:

  _Meum judicium postulant qui judicium Christi expecto. Dico enim, ut
  se veritas habet, sacerdotum judicium ita debet haberi ac si ipse
  Dominus residens judicet._

-----

It is not a little difficult to understand why an Emperor who wrote such
a letter as the above should have again acceded to the Donatist demand
for a rehearing. Possibly the Donatists had powerful friends at court of
whom we know nothing, some member, it may be, of the Imperial Family, or
perhaps the case against them was not so one-sided as the Catholic
authorities agree in representing. At any rate, Constantine summoned
Cæcilianus to appear before him in Rome. Here is the letter which he
wrote to the Donatist bishops to apprise them of his determination:

  “A few days ago I had decided to accede to your request and permit you
  to return to Africa, that the case which you think you have
  established against Cæcilianus might be fully investigated and brought
  to a proper conclusion. But, after long and careful consideration, I
  have deemed the following arrangement best. Knowing, as I do, that
  certain of you are of a decidedly turbulent nature and obstinately
  reject a right verdict and the reasoning of absolute truth, it might
  conceivably happen, if the case were heard in Africa, that the
  conclusion reached would not be a fitting one, or in accordance with
  the dictates of truth. In that event, owing to your exceeding
  obstinacy, something might occur which would greatly displease the
  Heavenly Divinity and do serious injury to my reputation, which I
  desire ever to maintain unimpaired. I have decided therefore, as I
  have said, that it is better for Cæcilianus to come here and I think
  he will speedily arrive.

  “But I pledge you my word that if, in his presence, you shall succeed
  in proving a single one of the crimes and misdeeds which you lay to
  his charge, it shall have as much weight with me as if you had proved
  every accusation you bring forward. May God Almighty keep you safe for
  ever.”

At the same time Constantine wrote to Probianus, the successor of
Ælianus in the governorship of Africa, instructing him to send under
guard to Italy certain witnesses who had been imprisoned for forging
documents purporting to shew that Felix of Aptunga was a _traditor_.
Cæcilianus failed to appear at the appointed time, for some reason which
is unknown to St. Augustine, who gives a brief account of the sequence
of events.[85] The Donatists demanded that judgment should be given
against the absent bishop by default, but Constantine refused and
ordered them to follow him to Milan, where affairs of state necessitated
his presence. If Augustine is to be trusted, the Emperor secured the
attendance of the Donatists by clapping them under guard (_ab
officialibus custoditos_). This time Cæcilianus did not fail his patron.
Constantine, who was strongly averse from taking upon himself to revise,
as it were, the judgments passed by so many bishops in council,
deprecated their possible resentment by assuring them that his sole
desire was to close the mouths of the Donatists.

-----

Footnote 85:

  _Epist._, 43.

-----

After hearing the case all over again, Constantine pronounced judgment
on Nov. 16, 316. St. Augustine says that the Emperor’s letters prove his
diligence, caution, and forethought. The praise may be deserved, but it
is evident that he had made up his mind beforehand. He re-affirmed the
absolute innocence of Cæcilianus and the shamelessness of his accusers.
In an interesting fragment of a letter written by the Emperor to
Eumalius, one of his vicars, occurs this sentence: “I saw in Cæcilianus
a man of spotless innocence, one who observed the proper duties of
religion and served it as he ought, nor did it appear that guilt could
be found in him, as had been charged against him in his absence by the
malice of his enemies.” The publication of the Emperor’s verdict was
followed by an edict prescribing penalties against the schismatics. St.
Augustine speaks of a “most severe law against the party of
Donatus,”[86] and, from other scattered references, we learn that their
churches were confiscated and that they were fined for non-obedience.
The author of the Edict of Milan, who had promised absolute freedom of
conscience to all, was so soon obliged to invoke the arm of the temporal
authority for the correction of religious disunion!

-----

Footnote 86:

  _Epist._, 105.

-----

But the Donatists, whose only _raison d’être_ was their passionate
insistence upon the obligation of the Christian to make no compromise
with conscience, however sharp the edge of the persecutor’s sword, were
obviously not the kind of people to be overawed by so mild a punishment
as confiscation of property. The Emperor’s edicts were fruitless, and in
320, only four years later, we find Constantine trying a change of
policy and recommending the African bishops to see once more what
toleration would do. Active repression only made martyrs, and martyrdom
was the goal of the fanatical Donatist’s ambition. Hence the terms in
which the Emperor addresses the Catholic Church of Africa. After
enumerating the repeated efforts he has made in order to restore unity,
and dwelling upon the deliberate and abandoned wickedness of those who
have rendered his intervention nugatory, he continues:

  “We must hope, therefore, that Almighty God may shew pity and
  gentleness to his people, as this schism is the work of a few. For it
  is to God that we should look for a remedy, since all good vows and
  deeds are requited. But until the healing comes from above, it behoves
  us to moderate our councils, to practise patience, and to bear with
  the virtue of calmness any assault or attack which the depravity of
  these people prompts them to deliver.

  “Let there be no paying back injury with injury: for it is only the
  fool who takes into his usurping hands the vengeance which he ought to
  reserve for God.[87] Our faith should be strong enough to feel full
  confidence that, whatever we have to endure from the fury of men like
  these, will avail with God with all the grace of martyrdom. For what
  is it in this world to conquer in the name of God, unless it be to
  bear with fortitude the disordered attack of men who trouble the
  peaceful followers of the law!

  “If you observe my will, you will speedily find that, thanks to the
  supreme power, the designs of the presumptuous standard-bearers of
  this wretched faction will languish, and all men will recognise that
  they ought not to listen to the persuasion of a few and perish
  everlastingly, when, by the grace of penitence, they may correct their
  errors and be restored to eternal life.”

-----

Footnote 87:

  _Nihil ex reciproco reponatur injuriæ: Vindictam enim, quam Deo
  servare debemus, insipientis est manibus usurpare._

-----

Patience, leniency, and toleration, however, were as futile as force in
dealing with the Donatists, who bluntly told the Emperor that his
protégé, Cæcilianus, was a “worthless rascal” (_antistiti ejus
nebuloni_), and refused to obey his injunctions. Donatus, surnamed the
Great in order to distinguish him from the other Donatus, who had been
Bishop of Casæ Nigræ, had by this time succeeded to the leadership of
the schism on the death of Majorinus, and the extraordinary ascendency
which he obtained over his followers, in spite of the powerful Imperial
influence which was always at the support of Cæcilianus, warrants the
belief that he was a man of marked ability. Learned, eloquent, and
irreproachable in private life, he is said to have ruled his party with
an imperious hand, and to have treated his bishops like lackeys. Yet his
authority was so unbounded and unquestioned that his followers swore by
his name and grey hairs, and, at his death, ascribed to him the honours
paid only to martyrs.

Under his leadership the Donatists rapidly increased in numbers. They
were schismatics rather than heretics. They had no great distinctive
tenet; what they seem to have insisted upon chiefly was absolute purity
within the Church and freedom from worldly taint. That was their ideal,
as it has been the ideal of many other wild sectaries since their day.
They claimed special revelations of the Divine Will; they insisted upon
rebaptising their converts, compelling even holy virgins to take fresh
vows on joining their communion, which they boasted was that of the one
true Church. Such a sect naturally attracted to itself all the fanatical
extremists of Africa and all those who had any grievance against the
Catholic authorities. It became the refuge of the revolutionary, the
bankrupt, and the criminal, and thus, inside the Donatist movement
proper, there grew up a kind of anarchist movement against property,
which had little or no connection with religious principles.

Constantine, during the remainder of his reign, practically ignored the
African Church. He had done what he could and he wiped his hands of it.
There soon arose an extravagant sect which took the name of
Circumcelliones, from their practice of begging food from cell to cell,
or cottage to cottage. They renounced the ordinary routine of daily
life. Forming themselves into bands, and styling themselves the
Champions of the Lord (ἀγωνιστικόι), they roamed through the
countryside, which they kept in a state of abject terror. St. Augustine,
in a well-known passage, declares that when their shout of “Praise be to
God!” was heard, it was more dreaded than the roar of a lion. They were
armed with wooden clubs, which they named “Israels,” and these they did
not scruple to use upon the Catholics, whose churches they entered and
plundered, committing the most violent excesses, though they were
pledged to celibacy. Gibbon justly compares them to the Camisards of
Languedoc at the commencement of the 18th century, and others have
likened them to the Syrian Assassins at the time of the Crusades and the
Jewish Sicarii of Palestine during the first century of the Christian
era. They formed, it seems, a sort of Christian Jacquerie, possessed in
their wilder moments with a frantic passion for martyrdom and imploring
those whom they met to kill them. The best of them were fit only for a
madhouse; the worst were fit only for a gaol. Probably they had little
connection with the respectable Donatists in the cities, whose
organisation was precisely the same as that of the Catholics, and their
operations were mainly restricted to the thinly populated districts on
the borders of the desert.

On one occasion, however, Constantine was obliged to interfere. The
Donatists in Cirta,—the capital of Numidia,—which had been renamed
Constantina in honour of the Emperor, had forcibly seized the church of
the Catholics, that had been built at Constantine’s command. The
Catholics, therefore, appealed to the Emperor, and knowing that he was
pledged to a policy of non-interference, they did not ask for punishment
against the Donatists, or even for the restoration of the church in
question, but simply that a new site might be given them out of public
moneys. The Emperor granted their request, ordering that the building as
well as the site should be paid for by the State, and granting immunity
from all public offices to the Catholic clergy of the town. In his
letter Constantine does not mince his language with respect to the
Donatists.

  “They are adherents,” he says, “of the Devil, who is their father;
  they are insane, traitors, irreligious, profane, ranged against God
  and enemies of the Holy Church. Would to Heaven!” he concludes, “that
  these heretics or schismatics might have regard even now for their own
  salvation, and, brushing aside the darkness, turn their eyes to see
  the true light, leaving the Devil, and flying for refuge, late though
  it be, to the one and true God, who is the judge of all! But since
  they are set upon remaining in their wickedness and wish to die in
  their iniquities, our warning and our previous long continued
  exhortations must suffice. For if they had been willing to obey our
  commandments, they would now be free from all evil.”

Evidently the Emperor was thoroughly weary of the whole controversy, and
disgusted at such unreasoning contumacy. The same feelings find powerful
expression in the letters and manifestoes of St. Augustine, a century
later, when the great Bishop of Hippo constituted himself the champion
of the Catholic Church and played the foremost part in the stormy
debates which preceded the final disappearance of the Donatist schism,
after the Council of Carthage in 410. Then the momentous decision was
reached that all bishops who, after three appeals to them to return to
the Church, still refused submission, should be brought back to the
Catholic fold by force. The point in dispute was still just what it had
been in the days of Constantine, whether a Christian Church could be
considered worthy of the name if it had admitted faithless and unworthy
members, or if the ministers had been ordained by bishops who had
temporised with their consciences and fallen short of the loftiest ideal
of duty. That was the great underlying principle at stake in the
Donatist controversy, though, as in all such controversies, the personal
element was paramount when the schism began, and was still the cause of
the bitterness and fury with which the quarrel was conducted long after
the intrigues of Lucilla and the personal animosities between Cæcilianus
and the Numidian bishops had ceased to be of interest or moment to the
living Church. And it is interesting to note that while it was the
Donatists themselves who had made the first appeal unto Cæsar by asking
Constantine to judge between them and Cæcilianus, in St. Augustine’s day
the Donatists hotly denied the capacity of the State to take cognisance
of spiritual things. What, they asked, has an Emperor to do with the
Church? _Quid est Imperatori cum Ecclesia?_

[Illustration: STATUE OF CONSTANTINE FROM THE PORCH OF SAN GIOVANNI IN
LATERAN, AT ROME.]

------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER X
                         THE ARIAN CONTROVERSY


If Constantine beheld with impatience the irreconcilable fury of the
Donatists, who refused either to respect his wishes for Christian unity
or to obey the bishops of the Western Church; if he angrily washed his
hands of their stubborn factiousness and committed them in despair to
the judgment of God, we may imagine with what bitterness of soul he
beheld the gathering of the storm of violent controversy which is
associated with the two great names of Arius and Athanasius. This was a
controversy, and Arianism was a heresy, which, unlike the Donatist
schism, were confined to no single province of the Empire, but spread
like a flood over the Eastern Church, raising issues of tremendous
importance, vital to the very existence of Christianity. It started in
Alexandria. No birthplace could have been more appropriate to a system
of theology which was professedly based upon pure reason than the great
university city where East and West met, the home of Neo-Platonism, the
inheritor of the Hellenic tradition, and the chief exponent of
Hellenism, as understood and professed by Greeks who for centuries had
been subject to and profoundly modified by Oriental ideas and thought.

We must deal very briefly with its origin. Arius was born in the third
quarter of the third century, according to some accounts in Libya,
according to others in Alexandria. He was ordained deacon by the
Patriarch Peter and presbyter by Achillas, who appointed him to the
church called Baucalis, the oldest and one of the most important of the
city churches of Alexandria. Arius had been in schism in his earlier
years. He had joined the party of Meletius, Bishop of Lycopolis, who was
condemned by a synod of Egyptian bishops in 306 for insubordination and
irregularity of conduct; but he had made submission to Achillas, and
during the latter’s short tenure of the see, Arius became a power in
Alexandria. We are told, indeed, that on the death of Achillas in 312 or
313 Arius was a candidate for the vacant throne, and Theodoretus states
that he was greatly mortified at being passed over in favour of
Alexander. But there is no indication of personal animosity or quarrel
between the bishop and the parish priest until five or six years later.
On the contrary, Alexander is said to have held Arius in high esteem,
and the fame of the priest of Baucalis spread abroad through the city as
that of an earnest worker, a strict and ascetic liver, and a powerful
preacher who dealt boldly and frankly with the great principles of the
faith. In person, Arius was of tall and striking presence, conspicuous
wherever he moved by his sleeveless tunic and narrow cloak, and gifted
with great conversational powers and charm of manner. He was also
capable of infecting others with the enthusiasm which he felt himself.
Arius has been described for us mainly by his enemies, who considered
him a very anti-Christ, and attributed his remarkable success to the
direct help of the Evil One. We may be sure that, like all the great
religious leaders of the world,—among whom, heretic though he was, he
deserves a place,—he was fanatically sincere and the doctrine which he
preached was vital and fecund, even though the vitality and fecundity
were those of error.

It was not, apparently, until the year 319 that serious disturbance
began in the Christian circles of Alexandria. There would first of all
be whispers that Arius was preaching strange doctrine and handling the
great mysteries somewhat boldly and dogmatically. Many would doubt the
wisdom of such outspokenness, quite apart from the question whether the
doctrine taught was sound; others would exhibit the ordinary distrust of
innovation; others would welcome this new kindling of theological
interest from the mere pleasure of debate and controversy. We do not
suppose that any one, not even Arius himself, foresaw—at any rate, at
first—the extraordinary and lamentable consequences that were to follow
from his teaching. The Patriarch Alexander has been blamed for not
crushing the infant heresy at its birth, for not stopping the mouth of
Arius before the mischief was done. It is easy to be wise after the
event. Doubtless Alexander did not appreciate the danger; possibly also
he thought that if he waited, the movement would subside of itself. He
may very well have believed that this popular preacher would lose his
hold, that some one else would take his place as the fashionable
clergyman of the hour, that the extravagance of his doctrines would
speedily be forgotten. Moreover, Arius was a zealous priest, doing good
work in his own way, and long experience has shewn that it is wise for
ecclesiastical superiors to give able men of marked power and
originality considerable latitude in the expression of their views.

As time went on, however, it became clear that Alexander must intervene.
Arius was now the enthusiastic advocate of theories which aimed at the
very root of the Christian religion, inasmuch as they denied the
essential Godhead of Christ. It was no longer a case of a daring thinker
tentatively hinting at doctrines which were hardly in accord with
established belief. Arius was devoting himself just to those points
where he was at variance with his fellows, was insisting upon them in
season and out of season, and was treating them as the very essence of
Christianity. He had issued his challenge; Alexander was compelled to
take it up. The Patriarch sent for him privately. He wished either to
convince him of his error or to induce him to be silent. But the
interview was of no avail. Arius simply preached the more. Alexander
then summoned a meeting of the clergy of Alexandria, and brought forward
for discussion the accepted doctrine of the Holy Trinity which Arius had
challenged. Arius and his sympathisers were present and the controversy
was so prolonged that the meeting had to be adjourned; when it
reassembled, the Patriarch endeavoured to bring the debate to a close by
restating the doctrine of the Holy Trinity in a form which he hoped
would be unanimously approved. But this merely precipitated an open
rupture. For Arius immediately rose and denounced Alexander for falling
into the heresy of Sabellianism and reducing the Second Person in the
Trinity to a mere manifestation of the First.

It is to be remembered that the doctrine of the Holy Trinity—difficult
as it is even now, after centuries of discussion, to state in terms that
are free from all equivocation—must have been far more difficult to
state then, before the Arian controversy had, so to speak, crystallised
the exact meaning of the terms employed. It seems quite clear, moreover,
from what subsequently took place, that Alexander was no match for Arius
in dialectical subtlety and that Arius found it easy to twist his
chief’s unskilful arguments and expressions into bearing an
interpretation which Alexander had not intended. At any rate the
inevitable result of the conference was that both sides parted in anger,
and Arius continued as before to preach the doctrine that the Son of God
was a creature. For this was the leading tenet of Arianism and the basis
of the whole heresy, that the Son of God was a creature, the first of
all creatures, it is true, and created before the angels and archangels,
ineffably superior to all other creatures, yet still a creature and, as
such, ineffably inferior to the Creator, God the Father Himself.

It does not fall within the scope of this book to discuss in detail the
theological conceptions of Arius and the mysteries of the Holy Trinity.
But it is necessary to say a few words about this new doctrine which was
to shake the world, and to shew how it came into being. Arius started
from the Sonship of Christ, and argued thus: If Christ be really, and
not simply metaphorically, the Son of God, and if the Divine Sonship is
to be interpreted in the same way as the relationship between human
father and son, then the Divine Father must have existed before the
Divine Son. Therefore, there must have been a time when the Son did not
exist. Therefore, the Son was a creature composed of an essence or being
which had previously not been existent. And inasmuch as the Father was
in essence eternal and ever existent, the Son could not be of the same
essence as the Father. Such was the Arian theory stated in the fewest
possible words. “Its essential propositions,” as Canon Bright has
said,[88] “were these two, that the Son had not existed from eternity
and that he differed from other creatures in degree and not in kind.”
There can be nothing more misleading than to represent the Arian
controversy as a futile logomachy, a mere quarrel about words, about a
single vowel even, as Gibbon has done in a famous passage. It was a
vital controversy upon a vital dogma of the Christian Church.

-----

Footnote 88:

  _The Age of the Fathers_, chap. v.

-----

Two years seem to have passed before Bishop Alexander, finding that
Arius was growing bolder in declared opposition, felt compelled to make
an attempt to enforce discipline within his diocese. The insubordinate
priest of Baucalis had rejected the personal appeal of his bishop and
disregarded the wishes of a majority of the Alexandrian clergy, and we
may reasonably suppose that his polemics would grow all the more bitter
as he became aware of the rapidly deepening estrangement. He would
sharpen the edge of his sarcasm upon the logical obtuseness of his
nominal superiors, for his appeal was always to reason and to logic.
Given my premises, he would say, where is the flaw in my deductions, and
wherein do my syllogisms break down? By the year 321 Arius was the
typical rebellious priest, profoundly self-confident, rejoicing in
controversy, dealing hard blows all around him, and prepared to stoop to
any artifice in order to gain adherents. To win over the mob, he was
ready to degrade his principles to the mob’s understanding.

Alexander summoned a provincial synod of a hundred Egyptian and Libyan
bishops to pronounce judgment upon the doctrines and the person of
Arius. Attended by his principal supporters, Arius appeared before the
synod and boldly stood to his guns. He maintained, that is to say, that
God had not always been Father; that the Word was the creature and
handiwork of the Father; that the Son was not like the Father according
to substance and was neither the true Word nor the true Wisdom, having
been created by the Word and Wisdom which are in God; that by His nature
He was subject to change like all other rational creatures; that the Son
does not perfectly know either the Father or His own essence, and that
Jesus Christ is not true God. The majority of the bishops listened with
horror as Arius thus unfolded his daring and, in their ears, blasphemous
creed. One of them at length put a searching test question. “If,” he
asked, “the Word of God is subject to change, would it have been
possible for the Word to change, as Satan had changed, from goodness to
wickedness?” “Yes,” came the answer. Thereupon the synod promptly
excommunicated Arius and his friends, including two bishops, Secundus of
Ptolemais in the Pentapolis and Theonas of Marmorica, together with six
priests and six deacons. The synod also anathematised his doctrines. The
Arian heresy had formally begun.

Arius quitted Alexandria and betook himself to Palestine, where he and
his companions received hospitable treatment at the hands of some of the
bishops, notably Eusebius of Cæsarea and Paulinus of Tyre. He bore
himself very modestly, assuming the rôle not of a rebel against
authority, but of one who had been deeply wronged, because he had been
grievously misunderstood. He was no longer the turbulent priest, strong
in the knowledge of his intellectual superiority over his bishop, but a
minister of the Church who had been cast out from among the faithful and
whose one absorbing desire was to be restored to communion. He did not
ask his kindly hosts to associate themselves with him. He merely begged
that they should use their good offices with Alexander to effect a
reconciliation, and that they should not refuse to treat him as a true
member of the Church. A few, like Macarius of Jerusalem, rejected his
overtures, but a large number of bishops in the Province—if we may so
term it—of the Patriarch Antioch acceded to his wishes. No doubt Arius
presented his case, when he was suing for recognition and favour, in a
very different form from that in which he had presented it from the
rostrum of his church at Baucalis. He was as subtle in his knowledge of
the ways of the world as in his knowledge of the processes of logic.
Nevertheless, he cannot possibly have disguised the main doctrine which
he had preached for years—the doctrine, that is to say, that the Son was
inferior to the Father and had been created by the Father out of a
substance other than His own—and the fact that the champion of such a
doctrine received recognition at the hands of so many bishops seems to
prove that the Church had not yet formulated her belief in respect of
this mystery with anything like precision; that theories similar to
those advocated by Arius were rife throughout the East and were by no
means repugnant to the general tendency of its thought.

Arianism would naturally, and did actually, make a most potent appeal to
minds of very varying quality and calibre. It appealed, for example, to
those Christians who had not quite succeeded in throwing off the
influences of the paganism around them, a class obviously large and
comprising within it alike the educated who were under the spell of the
religious philosophy of the Neo-Platonists, and the uneducated and
illiterate who believed, or at any rate spoke as if they believed, in a
multiplicity of gods. To minds, therefore, still insensibly thinking in
terms of polytheism one can understand the attraction of the leading
thought of Arianism, viz., one supreme, eternal, omnipotent God, God the
Father, and a secondary God, God the Son, God and creature in one, and
therefore the better fitted to be intermediary between the
unapproachable God and fallen humanity. For how many long centuries had
not the world believed in demi-gods as it had believed in gods?
Arianism, on one side of its character, enabled men to cast a lingering
look behind on an outworn creed which had not been wholly gross and
which had not been too exacting for human frailty. Moreover, there were
many texts in Holy Scripture which seemed in the most explicit language
to corroborate the truth of Arius’s teaching. “My Father is greater than
I,” so Christ had Himself said, and the obvious and literal meaning of
the words seemed entirely inconsistent with any essential co-equality of
Son and Father. The text, of course, is subject to another—if more
recondite—interpretation, but the history of religion has shewn that the
origin of most sects has been due to people fastening upon individual
texts and founding upon them doctrines both great and small.

Again,—and perhaps this was the strongest claim that Arianism could put
forward,—it appealed to men’s pride and belief in the adequacy of their
reason. Mankind has always hungered after a religious system based on
reason, founded in reason; secure against all objectors, something
four-square and solid against all possible assailants. Arianism claimed
to provide such a system, and it unquestionably had the greater
appearance—at any rate to a superficial view—of being based upon
irrefutable argument. Canon Bright put the case very well where he
wrote[89]:

  “Arianism would appeal to not a few minds by adopting a position
  virtually rationalistic, and by promising to secure a Christianity
  which should stand clear of philosophical objections, and Catholics
  would answer by insisting that the truths pertaining to the Divine
  Nature must be pre-eminently matter of adoring faith, that it was rash
  to speculate beyond the limit of revelation, and that the Arian
  position was itself open to criticism from reason’s own point of view.
  Arians would call on Catholics to ‘be logical’; to admit the prior
  existence of the Father as involved in the very primary notion of
  fatherhood; to halt no more between a premiss and a conclusion, to
  exchange their sentimental pietism for convictions sustainable by
  argument. And Catholics would bid them in turn remember the inevitably
  limited scope of human logic in regard to things divine and would
  point out the sublime uniqueness of the divine relation called
  Fatherhood.”

-----

Footnote 89:

  _The Age of the Fathers_, chap. vi.

-----

If we consider the subsequent history of the Arian doctrine, its
continual rebirth, the permanent appeal which, in at least some of its
phases, it makes to certain types of intellect including some of the
loftiest and shrewdest, there can be no reason for surprise that Arius
met with so much recognition and sympathy, even among those who refused
him their active and definite support. Alexander was both troubled and
annoyed to find that so many of the Eastern bishops took Arius’s part,
and he sent round a circular letter of remonstrance which had the effect
of arousing some of these kindly ecclesiastics to a sense of the danger
which lurked in the Arian doctrine. But Arius was soon to find his
ablest and most influential champion in the person of another Eusebius,
Bishop of Nicomedia in Bithynia. This Eusebius had been Bishop of
Berytus (Beyrout), and it has been thought that he owed his translation
from that see to the more important one of Nicomedia to the influence of
Constantia, sister of Constantine and wife of Licinius. He had, at any
rate, been sufficiently astute to obtain the good-will of Constantine on
the fall of his old patron and he stood well with the court circle.

He and Arius were old friends, for they had been fellow-pupils of the
famous Lucian of Antioch. It has been suggested that Eusebius was rather
the teacher than the pupil of Arius, but probably neither word expresses
the true relationship. They were simply old friends who thought very
much alike. Arius’s letter to Eusebius asking for his help is one of the
most interesting documents of the period. Arius writes with hot
indignation of the persecution to which he has been subjected by
Alexander, who, he says, had expelled him and his friends from
Alexandria as impious atheists because they had refused to subscribe to
the outrageous doctrines which the Bishop professed. He then gives in
brief his version of Alexander’s teaching and of his own, which he
declares is that of Eusebius of Cæsarea and all the Eastern bishops,
with the exception of a few. “We are persecuted,” he continues, “because
we have said, ‘the Son has a beginning, but God is without a beginning,’
and ‘the Son is made of that which is not,’ and ‘the Son is not part of
God nor is he of any substance.’” It is the letter of a man angry at
what he conceives to be the harsh treatment meted out to him, and it has
the ring of honesty about it, for even though it distorts the views put
forward by Alexander, there never yet was a convinced theologian who
stated his opponent’s case precisely as that opponent would state it for
himself.

We have not Eusebius’s answer to this letter, the closing sentence of
which begged him as “a true fellow-pupil of Lucian” not to fail him. But
we know at least that it was favourable, for we next find Arius at
Nicomedia itself, under the wing of the popular and powerful Bishop, who
vigorously stood up for his friend. Eusebius wrote more than once to
Alexander pleading the cause of the banished presbyter, and Arius
himself also wrote to his old Bishop, restating his convictions and
reopening the entire question in a temperate form. The tone of that
letter certainly compares most favourably with that of the famous
document which Alexander addressed to his namesake at Byzantium, warning
him to be on guard against Arius and his friends. He can find no
epithets strong enough in which to describe them. They are possessed of
the Devil, who dwells in them and goads them to fury; they are jugglers
and tricksters, clever conjurors with seductive words; they are brigands
who have built lairs for themselves wherein day and night they curse
Christ and the faithful; they are no better than the Jews or Greeks or
pagans, whose good opinion they eagerly covet, joining them in scoffing
at the Catholic doctrine and stirring up faction and persecution. The
Bishop in his fury even declares that the Arians are threatening
lawsuits against the Church at the instance of disorderly women whom
they have led astray, and accuses them of seeking to make proselytes
through the agency of the loose young women of the town. In short, they
have torn the unbroken tunic of Christ. And so on throughout the letter.

The historians of the Church have done the cause of truth a poor service
in concealing or glossing over the outrageous language employed by the
Patriarch, whose violence raises the suspicion that he must have been
conscious of the weakness of his own dialectical power in thus
disqualifying his opponents and ruling them out of court as a set of
frantic madmen. “What impious arrogance,” he exclaims. “What measureless
madness! What vainglorious melancholy! What a devilish spirit it is that
indurates their unholy souls!” Even when every allowance is made, this
method of conducting a controversy creates prejudice against the person
employing it. It is, moreover, in the very sharpest contrast with the
method employed by Arius, and with the tenor of the letter written by
Eusebius of Nicomedia to Paulinus of Tyre, praying him to write to “My
lord, Alexander.” Eusebius hotly resented the tone of the Patriarch’s
letter, and, summoning a synod of Bithynian bishops, laid the whole
matter before them for discussion. Sympathising with Arius, these
bishops addressed a circular letter “to all the bishops throughout the
Empire,” begging them not to deny communion to the Arians and also to
seek to induce Alexander to do the same. Alexander, however, stood out
for unconditional surrender.

Arius returned to Palestine, where three bishops permitted him to hold
services for his followers, and the wordy war continued. Alexander drew
up a long encyclical which he addressed “to all his fellow-workers of
the universal Catholic Church,” couched in language not quite so violent
as that which he had employed in writing to the Bishop of Byzantium, yet
denouncing the Arians in no measured terms as “lawless men and fighters
against Christ, teaching an apostasy which one may rightly describe as
preparing the way for anti-Christ.” In it he attacks Eusebius of
Nicomedia by name, accusing him of “believing that the welfare of the
Church depended upon his nod,” and of championing the cause of Arius not
because he sincerely believed the Arian doctrine so much as in order to
further his own ambitious interests. Evidently, this was not the first
time that the two prelates had been at variance, and private animosities
accentuated their doctrinal differences. The more closely the original
authorities are studied, the more evident is the need for caution in
accepting the traditional character sketches of Arius and Eusebius of
Nicomedia. Alexander declares that he is prostrated with sorrow at the
thought that Arius and his friends are eternally lost, after having once
known the truth and denied it. But he adds, “I am not surprised. Did not
Judas betray his Master after being a disciple?” We are sceptical of
Alexander’s sorrow. He closes his letter with a plea for the absolute
excommunication of the Arians. Christians must have nothing to do with
the enemies of Christ and the destroyers of souls. They must not even
offer them the compliment of a morning salutation. To say “Good-morning”
to an Arian was to hold communication with the lost. Such a manifesto
merely added fuel to the fire, and the two parties drew farther and
farther apart.

Nor was Arius idle. It must have been about this time that he composed
the notorious poem, _Thalia_, in which he embodied his doctrines. He
selected the metre of a pagan poet, Sotades of Crete, of whom we know
nothing save that his verses had the reputation of being exceedingly
licentious. Arius did this of deliberate purpose. His object was to
popularise his doctrines. Sotades had a vogue; Arius desired one. What
he did was precisely similar to what in our own time the Salvation Army
has done in setting its hymns to the popular tunes and music-hall
ditties of the day. This was at first a cause of scandal to many worthy
people, who now admit the cleverness and admire the shrewdness of the
idea. Similarly, Arius got people to sing his doctrines to the very
tunes to which they had previously sung the indecencies of Sotades. He
wrote ballads, so we are told by Philostorgius—the one Arian historian
who has survived—for sailors, millers, and travellers. But it is
certainly difficult to understand their popularity, judging from the
isolated fragments which are quoted by Athanasius in his _First
Discourse Against the Arians_ (chap. xi.). According to Athanasius, the
_Thalia_ opened as follows:

     “According to faith of God’s elect, God’s prudent ones,
     Holy children, rightly dividing, God’s Holy Spirit receiving,
     Have I learned this from the partakers of wisdom,
     Accomplished, divinely taught, and wise in all things.
     Along their track have I been walking, with like opinions.
     I am very famous, the much suffering for God’s glory,
     And taught of God, I have acquired wisdom and knowledge.”

It is rather the unspeakable tediousness and frigidity of this exordium
than its arrogant impiety that strike the modern reader. Athanasius then
proceeds to quote examples of Arius’s “repulsive and most impious
mockeries.” For example, “God was not always a Father; there was once a
time when God was alone and was not yet a Father. But afterwards He
became a Father.” Or, “the Son was not always,” or “the Word is not very
God, but by participation in Grace, He, as all others, is God only in
name.” If these are good specimens of what Athanasius calls “the fables
to be found in Arius’s jocose composition,” the standard of the jocose
or the ridiculous must have altered greatly. Why such a poem should have
been called the _Thalia_ or “Merrymaking,” it is hard to conceive.

Yet, one can understand how the ribald wits of Alexandria gladly seized
upon this portentous controversy and twisted its prominent phrases into
the catch-words of the day. There is a passage in Gregory of Nyssa
bearing on this subject which has frequently been quoted.

  “Every corner of Constantinople,” he says, “was full of their
  discussions, the streets, the market-place, the shops of the
  money-changers and the victuallers. Ask a tradesman how many obols he
  wants for some article in his shop, and he replies with a disquisition
  on generated and ungenerated being. Ask the price of bread to-day, and
  the baker tells you, ‘The Son is subordinate to the Father.’ Ask your
  servant if the bath is ready and he makes answer, ‘The Son arose out
  of nothing.’ ‘Great is the only Begotten,’ declared the Catholics, and
  the Arians rejoined, ‘But greater is He that begot.’”

It was a subject that lent itself to irreverent jesting and cheap
profanity. The baser sort of Arians appealed to boys to tell them
whether there were one or two Ingenerates, and to women to say whether a
son could exist before he was born. Even in the present day, any
theological doctrine which has the misfortune to become the subject of
excited popular debate is inevitably dragged through the mire by the
ignorant partisanship and gross scurrilities of the contending factions.
We may be sure that the “Ariomaniacs”—as they are called—were neither
worse nor better than the champions of the Catholic side, and the result
was tumult and disorder. In fact, says Eusebius of Cæsarea,

  “in every city bishops were engaged in obstinate conflict with
  bishops, people rose against people, and almost, like the fabled
  Symplegades, came into violent collision with each other. Nay, some
  were so far transported beyond the bounds of reason as to be guilty of
  reckless and outrageous conduct and even to insult the statues of the
  Emperor.”

Constantine felt obliged to intervene and addressed a long letter to
Alexander and Arius, which he confided to the care of his spiritual
adviser, Hosius, Bishop of Cordova, bidding him go to Alexandria in
person and do what he could to mediate between the disputants. We need
not give the text in full. Constantine began with his usual exordium.
His consuming passion, he said, was for unity of religious opinion, as
the precursor and best guarantee of peace. Deeply disappointed by
Africa, he had hoped for better things from “the bosom of the East,”
whence had arisen the dawn of divine light. Then he continues:

  “But Ah! glorious and Divine Providence, what a wound was inflicted
  not alone on my ears but on my heart, when I heard that divisions
  existed among yourselves, even more grievous than those of Africa, so
  that you, through whose agency I hoped to bring healing to others,
  need a remedy worse than they. And yet, after making careful enquiry
  into the origin of these discussions, I find that the cause is quite
  insignificant and entirely disproportionate to such a quarrel.[90]...
  I gather then that the present controversy originated as follows. For
  when you, Alexander, asked each of the presbyters what he thought
  about a certain passage in the Scriptures, or rather what he thought
  about a certain aspect of a foolish question, and you, Arius, without
  due consideration laid down propositions which never ought to have
  been conceived at all, or, if conceived, ought to have been buried in
  silence, dissension arose between you; communion was forbidden; and
  the most holy people, torn in twain, no longer preserved the unity of
  a common body.”

-----

Footnote 90:

  ἄγαν εὐτελὴς καὶ οὐδαμῶς ἀξία της τοιαύτης φιλονεικίας ἡ πρόφασις.

-----

The Emperor then exhorts them to let both the unguarded question and the
inconsiderate answer be forgotten and forgiven. The subject, he says,
never ought to have been broached, but there is always mischief found
for idle hands to do and idle brains to think. The difference between
you, he insists, has not arisen on any cardinal doctrine laid down in
the Scriptures, nor has any new doctrine been introduced. “You hold one
and the same view”;[91] reunion, therefore, is easily possible. So
little does the Emperor appreciate the importance of the questions at
issue, that he goes on to quote the example of the pagan philosophers
who agree to disagree on details, while holding the same general
principles. How then, he asks, can it be right for brethren to behave
towards one another like enemies because of mere trifling and verbal
differences?[92] “Such conduct is vulgar, childish, and petulant,
ill-befitting priests of God and men of sense. It is a wile and
temptation of the Devil. Let us have done with it. If we cannot all
think alike on all topics, we can at least all be united on the great
essentials. As far as regards divine Providence, let there be one faith
and one understanding, one united opinion in reference to God.” And then
the letter concludes with the passionate outburst:

  “Restore me then my quiet days and untroubled nights, that I may
  retain my joy in the pure light and, for the rest of my days, enjoy
  the gladness of a peaceful life. Else I needs must groan and be
  diffused wholly in tears, and know no comfort of mind till I die. For
  while the people of God, my fellow-servants, are thus torn asunder in
  unlawful and pernicious controversy, how can I be of tranquil mind?”

-----

Footnote 91:

  άλλ’ ἕνα καὶ τὸν αὐτὸν ἕχετε λογισμὸν.

Footnote 92:

  δι’ ολίγας καὶ ματαίας ῥημάτων ἐν ἡμῖν φιλονεικίας.

-----

Some have seen in this letter proof of the Emperor’s consummate wisdom,
and have described its language as golden and the triumph of common
sense. It seems to us a complete exposure of his profound ignorance of
the subject in which he had interfered. It was easy to say that the
question should not have been raised. “_Quieta non movere_” is an
excellent motto in theology as in politics. But this was precisely one
of those questions which, when once raised, are bound to go forward to
an issue. The time was ripe for it. It suited the taste and temper of
the age, and the resultant storm of controversy, so easily stirred up,
was not easily allayed. For Constantine to tell Alexander and Arius that
theirs was merely a verbal quarrel on an insignificant and non-essential
point, or that they were really of one and the same mind, and held one
and the same view on all essentials, was grotesquely absurd. The
question at issue was none other than the Divine Nature of the Son of
God. If theology is of any value or importance at all, it is impossible
to conceive a more essential problem.

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER XI
                          THE COUNCIL OF NICÆA


Constantine’s letter was fruitless. Hosius sought to play the peacemaker
in vain. Neither Alexander nor Arius desired peace except at the price
of the other’s submission, and neither was prepared to submit. Hosius,
therefore, did not remain long in Alexandria, and, returning to
Constantine, recommended him to summon a Council of the Church. The
advice pleased the Emperor, who at once issued letters calling upon the
bishops to assemble at Nicæa, in Bithynia, in the month of June, 325.
The invitations were accepted with alacrity, for Constantine placed at
the disposal of the bishops the posting system of the Empire, thus
enabling them to travel comfortably, expeditiously, and at no cost to
themselves.

  “They were impelled,” says Eusebius,[93] “by the anticipation of a
  happy result to the conference, by the hope of enjoying present peace,
  and by the desire of beholding something new and strange in the person
  of so admirable an Emperor. And when they were all assembled, it
  appeared evident that the proceeding was the work of God, inasmuch as
  men, who had been most widely separated not merely in sentiment but by
  differences of country, place, and nation, were here brought together
  within the walls of a single city, forming as it were a vast garland
  of priests, composed of a variety of the choicest flowers.”

-----

Footnote 93:

  _De Vita Constant._, iii., 6.

-----

The Council of Nicæa was the first of the great Œcumenical Councils of
the Church. There had been nothing like it before; nor could there have
been, for no pagan Emperor would have tolerated such an assembly. The
exact number of those present is not known. Eusebius, with irritating
and unnecessary vagueness, says that “the bishops exceeded two hundred
and fifty, while the number of the presbyters and deacons in their train
and the crowd of acolytes and other attendants was altogether beyond
computation.” There are sundry lists of names recorded by the
ecclesiastical historians, but unfortunately all are incomplete.
However, as a confident legend grew up within fifty years of the Council
that the bishops were 318 in number, and as the Council itself became
known as “The Council of the 318,” we may accept that figure without
much demur. Very few came from the West. Hosius of Cordova seems to have
been the only representative of the Spanish Church, and Nacasius of
Divio the only representative of Gaul. The Bishops of Arles, Autun,
Lyons, Treves, Narbonne, Marseilles, Toulouse—all cities of first-class
importance—were absent. Eustorgius came from Milan; Marcus from
Calabria; Capito from Sicily. The aged Sylvester of Rome would have
attended, had his physical infirmities permitted, but he sent two
presbyters to speak for him, Vito and Vincentius. Bishop Domnus of
Stridon represented Pannonia, and Theophilus the Goth came on behalf of
the northern barbarians—probably to listen rather than to speak.
Evidently, then, the composition of the Council was overwhelmingly
Eastern. Greek, not Latin, was the language spoken, and certainly Greek,
not Latin, was the heresy under discussion, for the Arian controversy
could not have arisen in the western half of the Empire. For all
practical purposes the Council of Nicæa was a well-attended synod of the
Syrian and Egyptian Churches. The opinions there expounded were the
opinions of the Christian schools of Antioch and Alexandria.

[Illustration: GATE OF ST. ANDREW AT AUTUN.]

We may take the names of a few of the bishops as they pass through the
gates of Nicæa, each accompanied by at least two presbyters and three
slaves, riding on horseback or in carriages, with a train of baggage
animals following. Alexander was there, bringing with him fourteen
bishops from the valley of the Nile and five from Libya. The most
conspicuous of these were Potammon of Heracleopolis and Paphnutius from
the Thebaid, both of whom had lost an eye in the late persecution, while
Paphnutius limped painfully, for he had been hamstrung. Eustathius, the
Patriarch of Antioch, came at the head of the Syrian and Palestinian
bishops, some of whom, like Eusebius of Cæsarea, were gravely suspected
of being unsound in the Faith and of having been influenced by the
seductions of Arianism, while others, like Macarius of Jerusalem, were
staunch supporters of Alexander. Another group hailed from the far
Euphrates and Armenia—John of Persia, James of Nisibis in Mesopotamia,
Aitallaha of Edessa, and Paul of Neo-Cæsarea, the tendons of whose
wrists had been seared with hot irons. Another group came from near at
hand, the bishops of what we now call Asia Minor, within the sphere of
influence of the imperial city of Nicomedia and of its Bishop, Eusebius.
He, too, was there with his friends, Theognis of Nicæa, Menophantus of
Ephesus, and Maris of Chalcedon, all committed to the cause and to the
doctrines of Arius. Then there were a group of Thracian, Macedonian, and
Greek bishops, a few from the islands, and Cæcilianus from Carthage.

Arius, too, was present with his few faithful henchmen from Egypt,
proudly self-confident as ever, but trusting mainly to the advocacy of
Eusebius of Nicomedia and to the influence of the moderates, like
Eusebius of Cæsarea. But during the years that he had been absent from
Alexandria a new protagonist had arisen among the ranks of his
opponents. Alexander, so runs the legend, had one day seen from the
windows of his house a group of boys playing at “church.” Thinking that
the imitation was too close to the reality and that the lads were
carrying the game too far, the Bishop went out to check them and got
into conversation with the boy who was taking the lead in their serious
sport. Impressed by his earnestness, he took him into his house and
trained him for the ministry. It was Athanasius, who now, as a young
deacon of twenty-five, accompanied Alexander to Nicæa, having already by
his cleverness and zeal gained a remarkable ascendency over the mind of
his superior. This slip of a man—for he was of very slender build and
insignificant stature—was to lay at Nicæa the sure foundations of his
extraordinary and unparalleled fame as the champion of the Catholic
Faith.

So the Council assembled in the June of 325 in the charming city of
Nicæa, on the shores of the Ascanian lake. The intense interest which it
aroused was not confined to those who were to take part in it, or even
to the Christian population of the city and district. It spread, so we
are expressly told, to those who still clung to the old religion.
Debates on the nature of the Fatherhood of God and the Sonship of Christ
would be almost as welcome and absorbing to a Neo-Platonist philosopher
as to a Christian bishop. His pleasure in the intellectual exercise was
marred by no anxiety lest it should result in disturbance of happy and
settled belief. When Greek met Greek they began forthwith to argue, and
so, without waiting for the Council formally to open, the early arrivals
at Nicæa commenced their discussions with all comers on the question of
the hour.

The story of one of these informal encounters is told by most of the
ecclesiastical writers. A certain pagan philosopher was holding forth
with great fluency and making mock of the Christian mysteries, to the
amusement of a number of bystanders. Finally, his challenge of
contradiction was accepted by “a simple old man, one of the confessors
of the persecution,” who knew nothing of dialectics. As he moved forward
to answer the scoffer there was a burst of laughter from some of those
present, while the Christians trembled lest their unskilled champion
should be turned to ridicule by his practised opponent. Their anxiety,
however, was soon set at rest. “In the name of Jesus Christ, O
philosopher, listen!” Such was the old man’s exordium, and the burden of
his few unstudied words was to restate his “artless, unquestioning
belief”[94] in the cardinal truths of Christianity. There was no
argument. “If you believe,” he said, “tell me so.” “I believe,” said the
philosopher, compelled, as he afterwards explained it, to become a
Christian by some marvellous power. Such is the version of Sozomen;
according to Socrates the old man said, “Christ and the apostles
committed to us no dialectical art and no vain deception, but plain,
bare doctrine, which is guarded by faith and good works.”[95] When we
consider the endless floods of dialectical subtlety which were poured
out during and after the Council of Nicæa by those engaged in the Arian
controversy, it seems rather biting irony that a pagan philosopher
should have been thus easily and rapidly converted from darkness to
light.

-----

Footnote 94:

  ἀπεριέργως πιστείομεν.

Footnote 95:

  γυμνὴν γνώμην, πίστει καὶ καλοῖς ἔργοις φυλαττομένην.—Socrates, i., 8.

-----

It is certain, however, that many of the bishops collected at Nicæa
belonged to the same class as this “simple old man,” peasants who had
had no theological training and owed their elevation—by the suffrages of
their congregations—to the conspicuous uprightness of their lives. Such
a one was Spyridion, of Cyprus, a shepherd in mind, speech, and dress,
but with a turn for rustic humour. Around his name many legends have
gathered, and none is more delightful than that which tells how he and
his deacon set out for Nicæa mounted on two mules, a white and a
chestnut. On the journey they came to an inn where they found a number
of other bishops bound on the same errand. These prelates feared that so
rustic a figure as Spyridion would bring discredit on their religion and
appear in grotesque contrast with the splendour of the Imperial Court.
So during the night they caused the two mules to be decapitated,
thinking that they would thus prevent Spyridion from resuming his
journey. The good Bishop was aroused before daybreak by his deacon, who
told him of the disaster. Spyridion simply bade him attach the heads to
the dead bodies, and, on this being done, the mules rose to their feet
as though nothing unusual had happened. When day broke, it was found
that the deacon had attached the heads to the wrong shoulders; the white
mule now sported a chestnut head and the chestnut a white. Still, it was
not thought necessary to repeat the miracle and change the heads, for
the mules apparently suffered no inconvenience.

The preliminary meetings of the Council were held in the principal
church of Nicæa and continued until the arrival of the Emperor, which
was not until after July 3rd, the anniversary of his victory over
Licinius. Then the state opening took place in the great hall of the
palace. Eusebius gives us a graphic account of the memorable scene.[96]
Special invitations had been sent to all whose presence was desired, and
these had entered and taken their places in grave and orderly fashion on
either side of the hall. Then expectant silence fell upon the company.
As the moment for the Emperor’s entry approached, some of the members of
his immediate entourage began to arrive, but Eusebius is careful to
mention that there were no guards or officers in armour, “only friends
who avowed the faith of Christ.” At the signal that Constantine was at
hand, the whole assembly swept to its feet, and the Emperor passed
through their midst like “some heavenly angel of God, clad in glittering
raiment that seemed to gleam and flash with bright effulgent rays of
light, encrusted as it was with gold and precious stones.” Yet, though
Constantine was thus dazzling in externals, it was evident—at-least to
the penetrating eye of the courtier bishop—that his mind was “beautified
by pity and godly fear.” For was not this revealed by his downcast eyes,
his heightened colour, and his modest bearing? Advancing to the upper
end of the hall, Constantine stood facing the assembly, while a low
golden stool was brought for him, and then, when the bishops motioned to
him to be seated, he took his seat, and the whole audience followed his
example. Beyond doubt, most of the bishops then gazed for the first time
upon the Emperor to whom they could not be sufficiently grateful for all
he had done for the Church, and Constantine himself might well be
flattered and pleased at the homage, evidently sincere, that was being
offered to him, as well as a little nervous at the thought that these
were the principal ministers and representatives of the God to whom he
had tendered allegiance. There would have been no downcast eye, no
blush, no marked modesty of carriage, we may suspect, if it had been a
council of augurs and flamens that Constantine had summoned. In that
case the Emperor would have been perfectly at his ease as he advanced up
the hall, conscious that he was the supreme head of all the priesthoods
represented in his presence, and that he was not only worshipper but
worshipped.

-----

Footnote 96:

  _De Vita Constant._, iii., 10.

-----

Then, says Eusebius, after a few introductory words of welcome had been
spoken, the Emperor rose and delivered a brief address in Latin which
was presently translated into Greek. He expressed his delight at finding
himself in the presence of such a Council, “united in a common harmony
of sentiment,” and prayed that no malignant enemy might avail to disturb
it, for “internal dissensions in the Church of God were far more to be
feared than any battle or war.” In well chosen language he explained the
overwhelming importance of unity and implored his hearers as “dear
friends, as ministers of God, and as faithful servants of their common
Lord and Saviour,” to begin from that moment to “discard the causes of
dissension which had existed among them and loosen the knots of
controversy by the laws of peace.” The excellent impression created by
this speech was intensified by the next act of the Emperor. On his
arrival at Nicæa he had found awaiting him a great number of petitions
addressed to him by the bishops accusing one another of heresy, or
political intrigue, or too strenuous activity on behalf of the fallen
Licinius. Socrates, indeed, says that “the majority of the Bishops” were
levelling charges against one another. But they received no
encouragement from Constantine. Seated there among them he produced the
incriminatory documents from the folds of his toga, called for a
brazier, and threw the rolls upon the fire, protesting with an oath that
not one of them had been opened or read. “Christ,” he said, “bids him
who hopes for forgiveness forgive an erring brother.” It was a dignified
and noble rebuke. The story reads best in this, its simplest form.
Theodoretus amplifies the Emperor’s rebuke and puts into his mouth the
dangerous doctrine that, if bishops sin, their offences ought to be
hushed up, lest their flock be scandalised or be encouraged to follow
their example. He would even, he said, throw his own purple over an
offending bishop to avoid the evils and contagion of publicity.

Such was the opening of the Council. The Emperor had scored a great
personal triumph and had set the bishops a notable example of
magnanimity. But it was not imitated. No sooner had the actual business
of the Council begun than the flood-gates of controversy were opened.
According to Eusebius, the Emperor remained to listen to their mutual
recriminations, giving ear patiently to all sides, and doing what he
could to assuage animosities by making the most of everything that
seemed to tend towards compromise. Unfortunately, the reports of the
Council are strangely incomplete. It is not even explicitly stated who
presided. The presidency of the Emperor was one only of honour; the
actual presidents were probably the legates of Pope Sylvester, viz.,
Hosius of Cordova and the two presbyters, Vito and Vincentius. But into
the controversy which rages round this point we need not enter.

The general feeling of the Council was not long in declaring itself.
Arius, who was regarded as a defendant on his trial, made his position
absolutely clear. He did not envelop himself, as he might have done, in
a cloud of metaphysics from which it would have been difficult to gather
his precise meaning. On the contrary, he seems to have come prepared
with a résumé of his doctrines, and to have been ready to defend his
outposts as resolutely as his citadel. Immediately, therefore, the
Council became split up into contending parties. There were the
out-and-out Arians, few but formidable, and the out-and-out
Trinitarians, led with great ability by the young Athanasius, whose
reputation steadily rose as the days passed by. There was also a middle
party, led by Eusebius of Nicomedia and supported by Eusebius of
Cæsarea, whose intellectual and personal sympathies lay with Arius
rather than with Athanasius, though they saw that the great majority of
the Council were against them, and that Arius and his opinions were sure
of excommunication. Theirs was what we may call the “cross-bench mind.”
They doubtless felt, what many who approach this controversy at the
present day feel, that if once appeal is made to Reason, there must be
no further appeal beyond that to Faith, as to a higher Court. Those who
invoke Reason must not turn round, when they find themselves driven into
an ugly corner, and condemn “the Pride of Reason.” In our view, Eusebius
of Nicomedia was not the malignant, self-seeking, and entirely worldly
prelate he is so often represented as having been, but a Bishop who
honestly regretted that this question had been raised at all, inasmuch
as he foresaw that it must rend the Church in twain. He would have
preferred, that is to say, that the exact nature of the Sonship of
Christ should not be made a matter of close definition, should not be
made a point of doctrine whereon salvation depended, should not be
inserted in a creed, but left rather to the individual conscience or to
the individual intellect. Once the question was raised, his intellectual
honesty led him to side with Arius, but he considered that to tear the
indivisible garment of Christ was a crime to be avoided at any cost.
Eusebius was bent upon a compromise. Arius was his old friend, and his
patron, the Emperor, passionately desired unity. The personal wish of
the monarch would be sure to have some, though we cannot say precisely
how much, weight with him in determining his policy.

Some of the sessions of the Council were marked by uproar and violence.
Athanasius declares that when the bishops heard extracts read from the
_Thalia_ of Arius, they raised the cry of “impious,” and closed their
eyes and shut their ears tight against the admission of such appalling
blasphemy. There is a legend, indeed, that St. Nicholas, Bishop of Myra,
was so carried away by his indignation that he smote Arius a terrific
blow upon the jaw for daring to give utterance to words so vile.
Theodoretus declares that the Arians drew up the draft of a creed which
they were willing to subscribe and had it read before the Council. But
it was at once denounced as a “bastard and vile-begotten document” and
torn to pieces. Then a praiseworthy attempt was made to begin at the
beginning. The proposition was put forward that the Son was from God.
“Agreed,” said the Trinitarians; “Agreed,” said the Arians, on the
authority of such texts as “There is but one God, the Father, of whom
are all things,” and “All things are become new and all things are of
God.” “But will you agree,” asked the Trinitarians, “that the Son is the
true Power and Image of the Father, like to Him in all things, His
eternal Image, undivided from Him and unalterable?” “Yes,” said the
Arians after some discussion among themselves, and they quoted the
texts: “Man is the glory and image of God,” “For we which live are
always delivered unto death for Jesus’ sake,” and “In him we live and
move and have our being.” “But will you admit,” continued the
Trinitarians, “that the Son is Very God?” “Yes,” replied the Arians,
“for he is Very God if he has been made so.” Athanasius tells us that
while these strange questions and answers were being tossed from one
side of the Council to the other, he saw the Arians “whispering and
making signals one to the other with their eyes.” It is to be regretted
that we have no independent account. The savage abuse with which
Athanasius attacks the Arians in his “Letter to the African Bishops”
makes his version of what took place at the Council exceedingly suspect.
He speaks of their “wiliness,” and delivers himself of the sarcasm that
as they were cradled in ordure their arguments also partook of a similar
character.[97] Most of the vilification in the opening stages of the
Arian controversy—at any rate most of that which has survived—seems to
have been on the Trinitarian side.

-----

Footnote 97:

  αὐτὸι μὲν ὥς ἐκ κοπρίας ὄντες ἐλαλησαν ἀληθῶς ἀπο γῆς.

-----

The word “Homoousion” had at length been uttered and, strangely enough,
by Eusebius of Nicomedia, though it was soon to become the rallying cry
of his opponents. He had employed it, apparently, to clinch the argument
against the Trinitarians, for, he said, if they declared the Son to be
Very God, that was tantamount to declaring that the Son was of one
substance with the Father. Greatly, no doubt, to his surprise, it was
seized upon by his opponents as the word which, of all others, precisely
crystallised their position and their objections to Arianism. But before
the fight began to rage round this word, the moderates came forward with
another suggestion of compromise. Eusebius of Cæsarea read before the
Council the confession of faith which was in use in his diocese, after
having been handed down from bishop to bishop. The Emperor had read it
and approved; perhaps, he urged, it might similarly commend itself to
the acceptance of all parties in the Council. The creed began as
follows:

  “I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, maker of all things both
  visible and invisible, and in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Word of God,
  God of God, Light of Light, Life of Life, the only-begotten Son, the
  First-born of every creature, begotten of the Father before all
  worlds, by whom also all things were made. Who for our salvation was
  made flesh and lived amongst men, and suffered, and rose again on the
  third day, and ascended to the Father, and shall come in glory to
  judge the quick and the dead. And I believe in the Holy Ghost.”

Eusebius, in writing later to the people of his diocese, said that when
this creed was read out,

  “no room for contradiction appeared; but our most pious Emperor,
  before any one else, testified that it comprised most orthodox
  statements. He confessed, moreover, that such were his sentiments, and
  he advised all present to agree to it, and subscribe to its articles
  with the insertion of the single word ‘one in substance.’”

Indeed, little objection could be taken to the creed of Eusebius, which
might have been subscribed to with equal sincerity by Arius and
Alexander. But the great problem, which had brought the Council
together, would have remained entirely unsettled. The creed was not
sufficiently precise. It left openings for all kinds of heresies. The
Trinitarians, therefore, insisted upon inserting a few words which
should more precisely define the relationship between the Father and the
Son and their real nature and substance, and should retain undiminished
the majesty and Godhead of the Son. They put forward the simple
antithesis “begotten not made” in reference to the Son, whereby the
Arian doctrine that the Son was a creature was effectually negatived.
And they also adopted as their own the word which has made the Council
famous alike with believers and with sceptics—the word “Homoousion.”

Dean Stanley, in his _History of the Eastern Church_,[98] has well said
that this is “one of those remarkable words which creep into the
language of philosophy and theology and then suddenly acquire a
permanent hold on the minds of men.” It was a word with a notable, if
not a very remote past. It had been orthodox and heretical by turns, a
fact which is not surprising when we consider the vagueness of the term
“ousia” and the looseness with which it had been employed by
philosophical writers.

  “It first distinctly appeared,” says Dean Stanley, “in the statement,
  given by Irenæus, of the doctrines of Valentius; then for a moment it
  acquired a more orthodox reputation in the writings of Dionysius and
  Theognostus of Alexandria; then it was coloured with a dark shade by
  association with the teaching of Manes; next proposed as a test of
  orthodoxy at the Council of Antioch against Paul of Samosata, and then
  by that same Council was condemned as Sabellian.”

Obviously, therefore, it was not a word to command instantaneous
acceptance; its old associations lent a certain specious weight to the
repeated accusation of the Arians that the Trinitarians were importing
into the Church fantastic subtleties borrowed from Greek philosophy, and
were encrusting the simple faith and the simple language of Christ and
the apostles with alien thoughts and formulæ. Athanasius meets that
argument with a “_tu quoque_,” asking where in Scripture one can find
the phrases which Arius had made his own. Modern theologians have
replied with much greater force that this importation of philosophy into
the Christian religion was inevitable.

-----

Footnote 98:

  Lecture iv.

-----

  “The Church,” says Canon Bright,[99] “had come out into the open, had
  been obliged to construct a theological position against the
  tremendous attacks of Gnosticism and to provide for educated enquirers
  in the great centres of Greek learning. She had become conscious of
  her debt to the wise.”

Elsewhere, in the same chapter, he says: “It would, indeed, have been
childish to attempt to banish metaphysics from theology. Any religion
with a doctrine about God or man must, as such, be metaphysical.” And
for the Arians to complain of the borrowing of technical terms from
philosophy by their opponents was palpably absurd. The whole _raison
d’être_ of the Arian movement was its professed rationalism, its appeal
to reason and logic, its consciousness, in other words, “of its debt to
the wise,” and its desire to be able to debate boldly with the enemy in
the gate. Really, therefore, the adoption of such a term was of great
practical convenience, especially when once its meaning was rigidly
defined. The Homoousion, whereby the Word or the Son was declared to be
of one essence or substance with the Father, asserted the undiminished
Divinity of the Son of God, through whom salvation came into the world.

-----

Footnote 99:

  _Age of the Fathers_, chap. vi.

-----

It is for theologians to expand upon such a text, but it needs no
theologian to point out the obvious truth that any diminution of the
majesty of the Son of God must have impaired the vitality and converting
power of Christianity. The word, therefore, was eagerly adopted by those
who had been commissioned to draw up a creed to meet the views of the
orthodox majority of the Council. That creed was at length decided upon;
Hosius of Cordova announced its completion; and it was read aloud for
the first time to the Council, apparently by Hermogenes, subsequently
Bishop of Cæsarea in Cappadocia. It ran as follows:

  “We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of all things both
  visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God,
  begotten of the Father, only begotten, that is from the substance of
  the Father, God of God, Light of Light, very God of very God, begotten
  not made, being of one substance with the Father, by whom all things
  were made, both in heaven and earth. Who for us men and for our
  salvation came down and was made flesh, and was made man, suffered and
  rose on the third day, ascended into the heavens and will come again
  to judge the quick and the dead. And we believe in the Holy Ghost.”

Such was the text of the famous document which ever since has borne the
title of the Nicene Creed. It has been added to during the centuries. It
has even lost one or two of its qualifying and explanatory sentences.
But these modifications have not touched its central theses, and, above
all, the Homoousion remains.

In order to make the position absolutely clear and preclude even the
most subtle from placing an heretical interpretation upon the words
employed, there was added a special anathema of the Arian doctrines.

  “But those who say, ‘Once He was not,’ and ‘Before He was begotten, He
  was not,’ and ‘He came into existence out of what was not,’ or those
  who profess that the Son of God is of a different ‘person’ or
  ‘substance,’ or that He was ‘made,’ or is ‘changeable’ or
  ‘mutable’—all these are anathematised by the Catholic Church.”

This was the formal condemnation of Arianism in all the Protean shapes
it was capable of assuming, and the vast majority of the bishops
cordially approved.

But what of Arius and his friends, and what of the Eusebian party?
Interest centred in the action of the latter. Would they accept the text
and sign? Or would they hold fast to the condemned doctrines? They
loudly protested, of course, against the anathema, and the Homoousion in
the creed itself was repugnant to their intellect. Eusebius of Cæsarea
asked for a day in which to consider the matter. Then he signed, and
wrote a letter to his flock at Cæsarea excusing and justifying his
conduct, and explaining in what sense he could conscientiously subscribe
to the Homoousion. He bowed to the clear verdict of the majority and to
the passionate wish of the Emperor. Constantine insisted that the creed
should be accepted as the final expression of Catholic belief, though he
would have been just as ready to accept the creed of Eusebius himself.
The presence or absence of the Homoousion was of little consequence to
him. What he wanted was unity, and he was determined to have it, for he
was already threatening recalcitrants with banishment. Eusebius of
Cæsarea signed. He submitted, in other words, when the Church, meeting
in Council, had spoken. The Palestinian and Syrian bishops who had
supported him in the debates followed his example, complying, we are
told, with eagerness and alacrity.

Eusebius of Nicomedia, Theognis of Nicæa, and Maris of Chalcedon made a
rather more resolute stand. According to one account, they consulted
Constantia, the Emperor’s sister, and she persuaded them to sign on the
ground that they ought to merge their individual scruples in the will of
the majority, lest the Emperor should throw over Christianity in disgust
at the dissension among the Christians. According to another story,
Constantia recommended them to insert an “iota” into the text of the
creed, and thus change the Homoousion into the Homoiousion, to which
they could subscribe without violence to their consciences. They could
admit, that is to say, that the Son was of “like” substance to the
Father when they could not admit that He was of the “same” substance.
The story is obviously a fiction and part of the campaign of calumny
against Eusebius of Nicomedia. He and his two friends signed the
creed—not fraudulently or with mental reservations as the story
suggests—but for precisely the same reason that Eusebius of Cæsarea had
signed it. It was the Emperor’s wish and they were willing to accept the
decision of the Council, but they still stood out against signing the
anathema. Two of them, Eusebius and Theognis, were deprived of their
sees and sent into exile. Whether their degradation and exile were due
wholly to this refusal is doubtful, though as an interesting parallel it
may be pointed out that Eusebius, Bishop of Vercellæ, and Dionysius,
Bishop of Milan, were exiled by the Emperor Valens in 355 because they
refused to subscribe the condemnation of Athanasius at the Third Council
of Milan. Arius and his two most faithful supporters were excommunicated
and banished and their writings, notably the _Thalia_, were burnt with
ignominy.

The labours of the Council were not yet concluded. The Bishops decided
that Easter should be observed simultaneously throughout the Church, and
that the Judaic time should give way to the Christian. They then drew up
what are known as the Canons of Nicæa. We may indicate some of the more
important, as, for example, the fifth, which provided that all questions
of excommunication should be discussed in provincial councils to be held
twice a year; the fourth, that there should be no less than three
bishops present at the consecration of every bishop, and the fifteenth,
which prohibited absolutely the translation of any bishop, presbyter, or
deacon from one city to another. Some of the canons, such as the
twentieth, which prohibited kneeling during church worship on Sundays
and between Easter and Pentecost; and the eighteenth, which rebuked the
presumption of deacons, have merely an antiquarian interest. The
seventeenth forbade all usury on the part of the clergy; the third
enacted that no minister of the Church, whatever his rank, should have
with him in his house a woman of any kind, unless it were a mother, a
sister, or an aunt, or some one quite beyond suspicion. While this canon
was under discussion, one of the most exciting debates of the Council
took place. The proposal was made that all the married clergy should be
required to separate from their wives, and this received a considerable
measure of support. But the opposition was led by the confessor
Paphnutius, whose words carried the more weight from the fact that he
himself had been a lifelong celibate. He debated the subject with great
warmth, maintaining at the top of his shrill voice that marriage was
honourable and the bed undefiled,[100] and so brought a majority of the
assembly round to his way of thinking.

-----

Footnote 100:

  τίμιον εἵναι καὶ τὴν κόιτην καὶ αὐτὸν ἀμίαντον τὸν γάμον.

-----

Then at last this historic Council was ready to break up. But before the
bishops separated, the Emperor celebrated the completion of his
twentieth year of reign by inviting them all to a great banquet.

  “Not one of them,” says Eusebius,[101] “was missing and the scene was
  of great splendour. Detachments of the bodyguard and other troops
  surrounded the entrance of the palace with drawn swords and through
  their midst the men of God proceeded without fear into the innermost
  apartments, in which were some of the Emperor’s own companions at
  table, while others reclined on couches laid on either side.”

He gave gifts to each according to his rank, singling out a few for
special favour. Among these was Paphnutius. Socrates says that the
Emperor had often sent for him to the palace and kissed the vacant eye
socket of the maimed and crippled confessor. Acesius the Novatian was
another, though he steadily refused to abate one jot or tittle of his
old convictions. Constantine listened without offence, as the old man
declared his passionate belief that those who after baptism had
committed a sin were unworthy to participate in the divine mysteries,
and merely remarked, with sportive irony, “Plant a ladder, then,
Acesius, and climb up to Heaven alone!”[102]

-----

Footnote 101:

  _De Vita Constant._, iii., 15.

Footnote 102:

  θὲς, ὦ Ἀκέσιε, κλίμακα καὶ μόνος ἀνάβηθι εἰς τὸν οὐρανόν.

-----

At the closing session the Emperor delivered a short farewell speech, in
which his theme was again the urgent need of unity and uniformity within
the Christian Church. He implored the bishops to forget and forgive past
offences and live in peace, not envying one another’s excellencies, but
regarding the special merit of each as contributing to the total merit
of all. They should leave judgment to God; when they quarrelled among
themselves they simply gave their enemies an opportunity to blaspheme.
How were they to convert the world, he asked, if not by the force of
their example? And then he went on to speak plain common sense. Men do
not become converts, he said, from their zeal for the truth. Some join
for what they can get, some for preferment, some to secure charitable
help, some for friendship’s sake. “But the true lovers of true argument
are very few: scarce, indeed, is the friend of truth.”[103] Therefore,
he concluded, Christians should be like physicians, and prescribe for
each according to his ailments. They must not be fanatics: they must be
accommodating. Constantine could not possibly have given sounder advice
to a body of men whose besetting sin was likely to be fanaticism and not
laxity of doctrine. The passage, therefore, is not without significance.
The Church had already begun to act upon the State; here was the State
palpably beginning to react upon the Church—in the direction of
reasonableness, compromise, and an accommodating temper. Then, after
begging the bishops to remember him in their prayers, he dismissed them
to their homes, and they left Nicæa, says Eusebius, glad at heart and
rejoicing in the conviction that, in the presence of their Emperor, the
Church, after long division, had been united once more.

-----

Footnote 103:

  καὶ σπάνιος αὖ τῆς ἀληθείας φίλος.

-----

Constantine evidently shared the same conviction. He had no doubt
whatever that the Arian heresy was finally silenced. So we find him
writing to the church at Alexandria, declaring that all points which
seemed to be open to different interpretations have been thoroughly
discussed and settled. All must abide by the _chose jugée_. Arius had
been proved to be a servant of the Devil. Three hundred bishops had said
it, and “that which has commended itself to the judgment of three
hundred bishops cannot be other than the doctrine of God, seeing that
the Holy Spirit, dwelling in the minds of so many honourable men, must
have thoroughly enlightened them as to the will of God.”[104] He took
for granted, therefore, that, those who had been led away by Arius would
return at once to the Catholic fold. The Emperor also wrote another
letter, which he addressed “To the Churches,” in which he declared that
each question at issue had been discussed until a decision was arrived
at “acceptable to Him who is the inspector of all things,” and added
that nothing was henceforth left for dissension or controversy in
matters of faith.[105] Most of the letter, indeed, consists of argument
shewing the desirability of a uniform celebration of Easter, but one can
see that the leading thought in the writer’s mind is that the last word
had at length been uttered on the cardinal doctrines of the Christian
Faith. The Council had been a brilliant success. The three hundred
bishops announced to the Catholic Church the decisions of their “great
and holy Synod,” with the explicit declaration that “all heresy has been
cut out of the Church.”[106] Arius was banished and Eusebius of
Nicomedia with him. The triumph of orthodoxy seemed finally assured.

-----

Footnote 104:

  ὅ γὰρ τοῖς τριακοσίοις ἐπισκόποις ἤρεσεν οὔδεν ἔστιν ἕτερον ἤ τοῦ θεοῦ
  γνώμη (Soc., i., 9).

Footnote 105:

  ὡς μηδὲν ἔτι πρὸς διχόνοιαν ἢ πίστεως αμφισβητησιν ὑπολείπεσθαι
  (_ibidem_).

Footnote 106:

  ἐπὶ τὸ πὰσαν αἵρεσιν ἐκκοπῆναι (Soc., i., 9).

-----

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER XII
                   THE MURDERS OF CRISPUS AND FAUSTA


We saw in the last chapter how Constantine presided over the
deliberations of the bishops at Nicæa, mild, benignant, gracious, and
condescending. It is a very different being whom we see at Rome in 326,
suspicious, morose, and striking down in blind fury his own gallant son.
The contrast is startling, the cause obscure and mysterious, but if the
secret is to be discovered at all, it is probably to be found in the
jealousies which raged in the Imperial House.

We must look a little closer at the family of Constantine. The Emperor
himself was in the very prime of middle age, just turning his fiftieth
year. His eldest son, by his first marriage with Minervina, was the hope
of the Empire. Crispus, as we have seen, had won distinction on the
Rhine, and had just given signal proof of his capacity by his victories
over the navy of Licinius in the Hellespont, which had facilitated the
capture of Byzantium. He was immensely popular, and the Empire looked to
him, as it had looked to Tiberius and Drusus three centuries before, as
to a strong pillar of the Imperial throne. But Crispus—if the usually
accepted theory be right—had a bitter and implacable enemy in the
Empress Fausta, who regarded him as standing in the path of her own
children, and menacing their interests by his proved merit and
abilities. The eldest of her sons, who bore his father’s name, was not
yet in his teens; the second, Constantius, had been born in 319; the
third, Constans, was a year younger. Her three daughters were infants or
not yet born. These three young princes, like Caius and Lucius,—to
pursue the Augustan parallel,—threatened rivalry to Crispus as they grew
up, the more so, perhaps, because Constantine had always possessed the
domestic virtues which were rare in a Roman Emperor. In his young days
one of the court Panegyrists had eulogised him as a latter-day miracle—a
prince who had never sowed any wild oats, who had actually had a taste
for matrimony while still young, and, following the example of his
father, Constantius, had displayed true piety by consenting to become a
father.[107] Another Panegyrist praised him for “yielding himself to the
laws of matrimony as soon as he ceased to be a boy,” and Eusebius, more
than once, emphasises his virtues as a husband and parent. Constantine,
we suspect, was a man easily swayed by a strong-minded woman, ambitious
to oust a step-son from his father’s favour.

-----

Footnote 107:

  _Novum jam tum miraculum juvenis uxorius_ (_Pan. Vet._, vi., c. 2 et
  4).

-----

[Illustration:

  “CONSTANTINE THE GREAT AND HIS MOTHER, ST.
  HELENA, HOLY, EQUAL TO THE APOSTLES.”

  FROM A PICTURE DISCOVERED 1845, IN AN OLD CHURCH OF MESEMBRIA.
  FROM GROSVENOR’S “CONSTANTINOPLE.”
]

There was yet another great lady of the reigning house whose influence
upon the Emperor has to be taken into account. This was his mother,
Helena, now nearly eighty years of age, but still vigorous and active
enough in mind and body to undergo the fatigues of a journey to
Jerusalem. Eusebius[108] dwells upon the estimation in which Constantine
held his mother, to whom full Imperial honours were paid. Golden coins
were struck in her honour, bearing her effigy and the inscription,
“Flavia Helena Augusta.” She amassed great riches, and although it is
impossible directly to trace her influence upon State affairs, there is
reason to believe that Helena, who owed her conversion, according to
Eusebius, to the persuasion of her son, was a woman of pronounced and
decided character and a great power at court.

-----

Footnote 108:

  _De Vita Const._, iii., p. 47.

-----

There was also Constantine’s half-sister, Constantia, the widow of
Licinius, whose intercession with her brother had secured for her
defeated husband an ill-kept promise of pardon and protection.
Constantia was to exhibit even more striking proof of her influence a
little later on by her skilful advocacy of the cause of Arius and
Eusebius of Nicomedia, and her share in procuring the banishment of
Athanasius. These great ladies move in shadowy outline across the stage;
we can scarcely distinguish their features or their form; but we think
we can see their handiwork most unmistakably in the appalling tragedies
which we now have to narrate.

In 326 Constantine went to Rome to celebrate the completion of his
twentieth year of reign. Diocletian had done the same—the only occasion
upon which that great Emperor had ever set foot in the ancient capital,
and even then he made all possible haste to quit it. But whereas
Diocletian had travelled thither with the intention of abdicating
immediately afterwards, Constantine had no such act of self-abnegation
in his mind. Yet he was in no festival mood. Not long after his arrival,
there took place the ancient ceremony known as the Procession of the
Knights, who rode to the Capitol to pay their vows to Jupiter—the
religious ceremony which attended the annual revision of the equestrian
lists. Constantine contemptuously stayed within his palace on the day
and disdained to watch the Knights ride by. His absence was made the
pretext for some street rioting, which, we can hardly doubt, had been
carefully engineered beforehand. Rome, still overwhelmingly pagan in its
sympathies, had doubtless heard with bitter anger how the Emperor, the
head of the old national religion, had been taking part in a General
Council of the Christian Church, had admitted bishops and confessors to
the intimacy of his table, and had boldly declared himself the champion
of Christianity. Constantine’s pointed refusal to countenance a
time-honoured ceremony which, while itself of no extraordinary
importance, might yet be taken as typical of the ancient order of
things, would easily serve as pretext for a hostile demonstration.
Demonstrations in Rome no longer menaced the throne now that the
barracks of the Prætorians were empty, but the incident would serve to
confirm the suspicions already clouding the mind of the Emperor.

We can read those suspicions most plainly in an edict which he had
issued at Nicomedia a few months before. It was addressed to his
subjects in every province (_Ad Universos Provinciales_), and in it the
Emperor invited all and sundry to come forward boldly and keep him well
informed of any secret plotting of which they happened to be cognisant.
No matter how lofty the station of the conspirator might be, whether
governor of a province, officer of the army, or even friend and
associate of the Emperor, if any one discovered anything he was to tell
what he knew, and the Emperor would not be lacking either in gratitude
or substantial reward. “Let him come without fear,” ran the edict, “and
let him address himself to me! I will listen to all: I will myself
conduct the investigation[109]: and if the accuser does but prove his
charge, I will vindicate my wrongs. Only let him speak boldly and be
sure of his case!”

-----

Footnote 109:

  _Intrepidus et securus accedat: interpellet me. Ipse audiam omnia,
  ipse cognoscam._

-----

The hand which wrote this was the hand which had flung unread into the
brazier at Nicæa the incriminating petitions of the bishops. What had
taken place in the interval that he should issue an edict worthy of a
Domitian? The authorities give not the slightest hint. Was there some
great conspiracy afoot, in the meshes of which Constantine feared to
become entangled, but so cunningly contrived that the Emperor could only
be sensible of its existence, without being able to lay hands on the
intriguers? Was paganism restless in the East as we have seen it
restless in Rome, at the triumph of its once-despised and always
detested rival? We do not know. Quite possibly it was, though with the
downfall of Licinius its prospects seemed hopeless. Unless, indeed,
there was some member of the Imperial Family upon whom paganism rested
its hopes and to whom it looked as its future deliverer! Was Crispus
such a prince? Again we do not know. There is not a scrap of evidence to
bear out a theory which has only been framed as a possible explanation
of the dark mystery of his fate.

Eutropius, whose character sketches, for all their brevity, usually
tally well with known facts, calls Crispus a prince of the highest merit
(_virum egregium_). Why then did Constantine turn against him? We may,
perhaps, see the first sign of the changed relationship in the fact that
in 323 the Cæsarship of Gaul was taken from Crispus and given to the
young Constantius, then a child of seven. So far as is known, no
compensating title or command was offered in exchange, which looks as
though Constantine was disinclined to trust his eldest son any longer
and preferred to keep him in surveillance by his side. The father may
have been jealous of the prowess and popularity of the son; the son may
have been ambitious, as Constantine himself had been in his young days,
and have deemed that his services merited elevation to the rank of an
Augustus. According to the system of Diocletian, twenty years of
sovereignty were held to be long enough for the welfare alike of
sovereign and of the Empire. Constantine’s term was running out. The
system was not yet formally abandoned; is it unreasonable to suppose
that Crispus considered he had claims to rule, or that Constantine,
resolved to keep what he had won, became estranged from one whom he knew
he was not treating with generosity or with justice?

As we have said, there is no evidence of any disloyalty on the part of
Crispus, but he may have let incautious expressions fall from his lips
which would be carried to the ears of his father, and he may have chafed
to see himself supplanted by the young princes, his half-brothers. The
boy Cæsar, Constantius, was named consul with his father for the
festival year 326, a distinction which Crispus may justly have thought
to belong by right to himself, and he may have seen in this another
proof of the ill-will of the Empress Fausta, and of her influence over
the Emperor. Possibly Crispus was goaded by anger into some indiscreet
action, which confirmed Constantine’s suspicions; possibly even he
committed some act of disobedience which gave Constantine the excuse he
sought for. At any rate, in the July or August of 326, Crispus was
arrested in Rome and summarily banished to Pola in Istria. Tidings of
his death soon followed. Whatever the manner of his death, whether he
was beheaded or was poisoned or committed suicide, all the authorities
agree that he came to a violent end and that the responsibility rests
upon his father, Constantine. Nor was Crispus the only victim. With him
fell Licinianus, the son of Licinius and Constantia. He was a promising
lad (_commodæ indolis_, says Eutropius) who could not have been more
than twelve years of age and could not, therefore, have been guilty of
any crime or intrigue against his uncle.

One cannot pass by altogether without mention the story of Zosimus that
the reason of Fausta’s implacable hatred of Crispus was not ambition for
her own children, but a still more ungovernable and much less pardonable
passion. Zosimus declares that Fausta was enamoured of her step-son, who
rejected her overtures, and so fell a victim, like another Hippolytus,
to the vengeance of this Roman Phædra. Most modern historians have
rejected the story, as emanating from the lively imagination of a Greek
at a loss for a plausible explanation of a mysterious crime, and we may,
with tolerable certainty, acquit Fausta of so disgraceful a passion. If,
as we suppose, she was the untiring enemy of Crispus, it is at once more
charitable and more probable to suppose that the motive of her hate was
her fierce ambition for her own sons. For the moment the Empress
conquered. But her triumph did not last long. Eutropius tells us that
soon afterwards—_mox_—a vague word equally applicable to a period of
days, weeks, or even months—Fausta herself was put to death by
Constantine. What was her offence? Philostorgius[110] declares that she
was discovered in an intrigue with a groom of the stables—an amour
worthy of Messalina herself. But the story stands suspect, especially
when taken in conjunction with the legend of her passion for Crispus.
The one seems invented to bolster up the other and add to its
verisimilitude. The truth is that nothing is known for certain; and the
whole episode was probably kept as a profound palace secret. One
circumstance, however, mentioned by Aurelius Victor and by Zosimus,
merits attention. Both declare that the Empress-mother, Helena, was
furious at the murder of Crispus. Zosimus says that she was greatly
distressed at her grandson’s suffering, and could hardly contain herself
at the news of his death (ἀσχέτως τὴν ἀναίρεσιν τοῦ νέου φερούσης).
Aurelius Victor adds that the aged Empress bitterly reproached her son
for his cruelty (_Cum eum mater Helena nimio dolore nepotis
increparet_). Evidently, Helena favoured Crispus, the son of
Minervina—who, like herself, had been forced by the exigencies of State
to quit her husband’s house, and make room for an Emperor’s daughter,—in
preference to the children of Constantine and Fausta; evidently
therefore, Helena and Fausta were rival influences at court, each
striving for ascendency. If Crispus’s death betokened that Fausta had
gained the upper hand, the death of Fausta shewed that Helena had
succeeded in turning the tables. When Helena violently reproached her
son for slaying Crispus, we may be sure that she was aiming her shafts
through Constantine at Fausta, and that when she succeeded in rousing
the Emperor to remorse she succeeded also in kindling his resentment
against his wife. It is said that Fausta was suffocated in a hot bath,
but every detail is open to challenge. Eusebius passes over the entire
episode without a word. He is not only silent as to the death of Fausta
but also as to the death of Crispus. The courtly Bishop refuses to turn
even a single look towards the crime-stained Palatine, on whose gates
some lampoon writer had set a paper with the bitter epigram:

                  _Saturni aurea sæcula quis requiret?
                  Sunt hæc gemmea, sed Neroniana._

(“Who will care to seek the golden age of Saturn? Ours is the age of
jewels, but jewels of Nero’s setting.”) If Constantine, like Saturn, had
devoured his children and had lapsed for the moment into a savage tyrant
of Nero’s pattern, it was not for Eusebius to judge him. He was writing
for edification. Constantine had averred his willingness to cast his
cloak over a sinning bishop lest scandal should arise; ought not an
ecclesiastical historian to cast the cloak of charitable silence over
the crimes of a most Christian Emperor? When, therefore, Eusebius
describes[111] how, after the death of Licinius, men cast aside all
their former fears, and dared to raise their long-downcast eyes and look
up with a smile on their faces and brightness in their glance; how they
honoured the Emperor in all the beauty of victory and “his most orderly
sons and Heaven-beloved Cæsars”; and how they straightway forgot their
old troubles and all unrighteousness, and gave themselves up to an
enjoyment of their present good things and their hope of others to come;
it is a healthy corrective to recall the murderous outbreak of
ungovernable wrath which made Rome shudder as it listened to the
whispered tale of what was taking place in the recesses of the Palatine.
The entire subject is one on which it is as fascinating as it is easy to
speculate. On the whole, it seems most likely that Constantine’s fears
had been worked upon to such an extent that he believed himself
surrounded by traitors in his own family, that the Empress Fausta had
been the leading spirit in the plot to ruin Crispus, and that when the
Emperor discovered his mistake he turned in fury upon his wife. It may
be, as Eutropius suggests, that his mental balance had been upset by his
extraordinary success, that his prosperity and the adulation of the
world had been too much for him.[112] That is a charitable theory which,
in default of a better, we, too, may as well adopt.

-----

Footnote 110:

  ii., c. 4.

Footnote 111:

  _De Vita Const._, ii., p. 19.

Footnote 112:

  _Verum insolentia rerum secundarum aliquantum Constantinus ex illa
  favorabili animi docilitate mutavit_ (x., p. 6).

-----

We need not doubt the sincerity of his repentance. Zosimus depicts the
Emperor remorsefully begging the priests of the old religion to purify
him from his crime, and says that when they sternly refused, Constantine
turned to accept the soothing offices of a wandering Egyptian from
Spain. Another account, current among pagans, was that he applied for
comfort to the philosopher, Sopater, who would have nothing to say to so
heinous a sinner, and that he then fell in with certain Christian
bishops, who promised him full forgiveness at the price of repentance
and baptism. The motive of these legends is as obvious as their falsity.
The pagans, in defiance of chronology, sought to explain the Emperor’s
conversion to Christianity as a result of the murders that lay heavy
upon his soul, murders so revolting as only to admit of pardon in the
eyes of Christians. Among the late legends of the Byzantine writer
Codinus, we find the story that Constantine raised to the memory of
Crispus a golden statue, which bore the inscription, “To the son whom I
unjustly condemned,” and that he fasted and refused the comforts of life
for forty days. Of even greater interest is the legend that Constantine
was baptised by Sylvester, the Bishop of Rome, and, in gratitude for the
promise of pardon, bestowed upon the see of Rome the _damnosa hæreditas_
of the Temporal Power.

There is no necessity to discuss at length the once famous, but now
simply notorious, Donation of Constantine. The legend is so grotesque
that one wonders it ever imposed on the credulity even of the most
ignorant. For it represented Constantine as being smitten with leprosy
for having persecuted the Church and for having driven the good Pope
Sylvester into exile. The Emperor consulted soothsayers, priests, and
physicians in turn, and was at last informed that his only chance of
cure lay in bathing in the blood of little children. Forthwith, a number
of children were collected for this dreadful purpose, but their cries
awoke the pity of Constantine and he gave them respite. Then, as he
slept, Peter and Paul appeared to him in a dream and bade him let the
children go free, recall Sylvester from exile, and submit at his hands
to the rite of baptism. This was done; the baptism was administered;
Constantine was cured of the leprosy, and in return he made over to
Sylvester and his successors full temporal dominion over the city of
Rome, the greater part of Italy, and certain other provinces. Such is
the story, which was long accepted without demur and confidently
appealed to as the origin of the Temporal Power. It is now universally
admitted that the whole legend is a fraud and the letter of Constantine
to Sylvester announcing the Donation a forgery of the eighth century.
Constantine never persecuted the Church; he never had leprosy; he never
contemplated bathing in infants’ blood; he did not receive the rite of
baptism until he was on his death-bed, and he did not hand over to the
Pope the fee simple and title deeds of Rome and Italy. The Donation of
Constantine belongs to the museum of historical forgeries.[113]

-----

Footnote 113:

  We may quote the most striking sentence in the document: _Ecce tam
  palatium nostrum quam urbem Romam, et omnes totius Italiæ et
  occidentalium regionum provincias, loca et civitates, præfato
  beatissimo Pontifici nostra Sylvestro, universali papæ, concedimus
  atque relinquimus._ The forger forged boldly, and then went on to add
  that Constantine withdrew to Constantinople, because it was not just
  that an earthly monarch (_terrenus imperator_) should exercise
  sovereignty in the city where the Head of the Christian religion had
  been installed by the Lord of Heaven (_ab imperatore cælesti_).

-----

[Illustration:

  THE DONATION OF CONSTANTINE.
  FROM THE PAINTING BY RAPHAEL IN THE VATICAN. PHOTOGRAPH BY ALINARI.
]

But if the repentance of Constantine did not take the form of stupendous
endowments for the Bishop of Rome, we may be tolerably sure that it did
manifest itself in the increased zeal of the Emperor for the building of
churches, and especially in his munificence to the Christians of Rome.
It is tempting, also, to connect with Constantine’s remorse and his
mother’s sorrow for the murder of her grandson the pilgrimage of Helena
to Palestine and Jerusalem, which followed almost immediately. Around
that visit there clustered many legends which, as time went on,
multiplied amazingly. Of these the most famous is that which is known as
the Invention of the Cross. This, in its fullest form many centuries
after the event, ran something as follows: When Helena reached Jerusalem
she asked to be shown the Holy Sepulchre. But no one could tell her
where the exact spot was. Buildings had been erected upon Mount Calvary
and the adjoining land; a temple of Venus was still standing near the
place where the body of Christ must have been laid. Helena instituted a
careful search, and the authority of the Emperor’s mother would be
warrant sufficient for the disturbance of the occupiers. At first their
toil met with no success. Then a very clever Jew came forward with a
story that he had heard of an old tradition that the site of the
Sepulchre lay in such and such a spot; the direction of the excavation
was entrusted to him; and the searchers were soon rewarded by finding
not only the cave where Christ had lain, but also three crosses. These,
it was at once determined, must have been the crosses on which Christ
and the two malefactors had suffered. But which had borne the Saviour?
There was nothing to show, but so sacred an object was sure to be
invested with wonder-working powers, and the test was, therefore, easy.
So they brought to the spot a dying woman—according to one version, she
was already dead—and touched her with the wood of the three crosses. At
contact with the first two no change was visible; but the touch of the
third recalled her to sensibility and perfect health, and the true Cross
stood at once revealed to the adoring worship of all believers. In the
wood were two nails. Helena had them carefully sent to Constantine, and
he, we are told, had one of them inserted—as something far more precious
than rubies—in the Imperial crown, while from the other he fashioned a
bit for his horse.

[Illustration:

  ST. HELENA’S VISION OF THE CROSS.
  BY CALIARI (PAOLO VERONESE).
  NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON.
]

Such is the legend in its most complete form. It directly associates the
finding of the Cross with Helena’s visit to Jerusalem, and attributes
also to her the magnificent church which was raised in the latter part
of the reign of Constantine on the site of the Holy Sepulchre. But it
must also be added that the first historical mention of the “Invention”
is seventy years after the discovery was supposed to have taken place.
Eusebius, in describing Helena’s pilgrimage,[114] knows nothing of the
finding of the Cross, and, while he speaks of the discovery of the
Sepulchre, he does not associate it with Helena, though he attributes to
her piety the new church at Bethlehem. It was Constantine, according to
Eusebius, who built the church on the site of the Holy Sepulchre, and
beautified the cave of Bethlehem and the site of the Ascension, but of
the finding of the Cross there is not a word—a significant silence,
which can only mean that the legend was not yet current when Eusebius
composed his “Life” of Constantine. What cannot well be doubted is that
the site of the Sepulchre was discovered and cleared in Constantine’s
reign. The Emperor built upon it one of his finest churches, but popular
tradition, with a sure eye for the romantic and the extraordinary,
preferred to attribute the origin of the noblest shrine in Palestine to
the pious enthusiasm of the aged Helena. Her pilgrimage over, Helena
died not long afterwards, and was buried by Constantine with full
military honours “in the royal tombs of the reigning city.” The phrase
points clearly to Constantinople as the place of burial, though Rome
also claims this honour.

-----

Footnote 114:

  _De Vita Const._, iii., p. 44, _seq._

-----

History is silent as to the events of the next few years. But as the
Empire had been free both from civil and foreign war since the downfall
of Licinius, we may accept the general statement of Eusebius “that all
men enjoyed quiet and untroubled days.”[115] Peace was always the
greatest interest of the Roman Empire, but it was rarely of long
continuance, and in 330 and the two following years we find the Emperor
campaigning in person against the Goths and the Sarmatæ. The account of
these wars in the authorities of the period is so confused and
contradictory that it is impossible to obtain a connected narrative.

-----

Footnote 115:

  _De Vita Const._, iv., c. 14.

-----

It was the old familiar story over again. The barbarians had come
raiding over the borders. There seems to have been fighting along the
entire north-eastern frontier, from the great bend of the Danube to the
Tauric Chersonese. Constantine and the legions drove the enemy back, won
victories chequered by minor reverses, and finally the Emperor was glad
enough in 332 to come to terms with the chiefs of the Gothic nation.
Mention is made of a handsome subsidy paid by Constantine to the Gothic
kings, which certainly does not suggest the overwhelming triumph of the
Roman arms of which Eusebius speaks when he says that the Emperor was
the first to bring them under the yoke and taught them to acknowledge
the Romans as their masters.[116] As for the Sarmatæ, Eusebius
declares[117] that they had been obliged to arm their slaves for their
assistance against the attacks of the Scythians, that the slaves had
revolted against their old masters, and that in despair the Sarmatæ
turned to Constantine and asked for shelter on Roman territory. Some of
them, says Eusebius, were received into the legions; others were
distributed as farmers and tillers of the soil throughout the frontier
provinces; and all, he declares, confessed that their misfortunes had
really been a blessing in disguise, inasmuch as it had enabled them to
exchange their old state of barbarian savagery for the Roman freedom.
Probably we shall not be far wrong if we place a different
interpretation on the words of Eusebius, and see in the transference of
these Sarmatians to the Roman provinces a confession of weakness on the
part of Constantine. They were not captives of war. They were rather
invited over the borders to keep their kinsmen out, and the Roman
Emperor paid for his new subjects in the shape of a handsome subsidy.
There can be no other meaning of the curious words of Eutropius that
Constantine left behind him a tremendous reputation for generosity with
the barbaric nations (_Ingentemque apud barbaras gentes memoriæ gratiam
collocavit._—x., 7). Money was not so plentiful in Constantine’s
exchequer that he gave subsidies for nothing. The suggestion is not that
he suffered defeat and bought off hostility; it is rather that he
thought it worth while, after vindicating the honour of the Roman arms,
to pay for the friendship of the vanquished.

-----

Footnote 116:

  _De Vita Const._, iv., p. 5.

Footnote 117:

  _Ibid._, iv., p. 6.

-----

On the Eastern frontier peace had remained unbroken throughout
Constantine’s long reign. Persia had been so shattered by Galerius that
King Narses made no attempt to renounce the humiliating treaty which had
been imposed upon him. His son, Hormisdas, had likewise acquiesced in
the loss of Armenia and what were known as the five provinces beyond the
Tigris, and when Hormisdas died, leaving a son still unborn, there was a
long regency during which no aggressive movement was made from the
Persian side. However, this son, Sapor, proved to be a high-spirited,
patriotic, and capable monarch, who was determined to uphold and assert
the rights of Persia. It is not known how the peaceful relationship,
which had so long subsisted between his country and Rome, came to be
broken. According to Eusebius,[118] Sapor sent an embassy to the
Emperor, which was received with the utmost cordiality, and Constantine,
we are told, took the opportunity of sending back by these same envoys a
letter commending to his favourable regard the Christians of Persia. The
document contained a very tedious and involved confession of faith by
the Emperor, who affirmed his devotion to God and declared his horror at
the sight and smell of the blood of sacrifice. “The God I serve,” said
Constantine, “demands from His worshippers nothing but a pure mind and a
spirit undefiled.” Then he reminded Sapor how the persecutors of the
Church had been destroyed root and branch, and how one of them,
Valerian, had graced the triumph of a Persian king. He, therefore,
confidently committed the Christians, who “honoured by their presence
some of the fairest regions of Persia,” to the generosity and protection
of their sovereign.

-----

Footnote 118:

  _De Vita Const._, iv., p. 8.

-----

This remarkable letter suggests that Sapor had been alarmed at the
growth of Christianity in his dominions, and by no means looked upon his
Christian subjects as lending lustre and distinction to his realm.
Whether he replied to what he may well have regarded as a veiled threat,
we do not know, but in 335 we hear of what Eusebius calls “an
insurrection of barbarians in the East,”[119] and Constantine prepared
for war against Persia. In other words, Sapor had fomented an
insurrection in the provinces beyond the Tigris and was claiming his
lost heritage. Constantine laid his military plans before the bishops of
his court. These declared their intention of accompanying him into the
field, to the great delight, we are assured, of the Emperor, who ordered
a tent to be made for his service in the shape of a church, while Sapor,
in alarm, sent envoys to sue for a peace which the most peaceful-minded
of kings (ἐιρηνικώτατος βασιλὲυς) was only too ready to grant. Such is
the story of Eusebius, but it is evident that the Eastern legions had
been carefully mobilised, and, whether such a peace was granted or not,
the death of Constantine in 337 was the signal for a renewal of the old
conflict between the two great empires of the world, and for a war which
lasted without intermission through the reigns of Constantine’s sons and
that of his nephew Julian.

-----

Footnote 119:

  _De Vita Const._, iv., p. 56.

-----

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER XIII
                    THE FOUNDATION OF CONSTANTINOPLE


We come now to the greatest political achievement of Constantine’s
reign—the foundation of a new Rome. Let us ask at the outset what led
him to take a step so decisive as the transference of the world’s
metropolis from the Italian peninsula to the borders of Europe and Asia.
The assignation of merely personal motives will not suffice. We are told
by Zosimus that Rome was distasteful to Constantine, because it reminded
him of the son and the wife who had fallen victims to his savage
resentment. He was uneasy in the palace on the Palatine, whose very
stones suggested murder and sudden death, and whose walls were cognisant
of unnumbered treasons. What Zosimus says may very well be true.
Constantine’s conscience was likely to give him less peace in Rome than
elsewhere. But the personal wishes of even the greatest men cannot bind
the generations which come after them. There have been cities founded by
the caprice of royal tyrants which have flourished for a season and then
vanished. Seleucia is perhaps the most striking example, and scarcely a
mound remains to mark its site. But most of the historic cities of the
world owe their greatness and their permanence not to the whims of royal
founders, but to geographical and strategic position. Rome was not
uncrowned by Constantine because he could not forget within its walls
the crimes which had stained his hands with blood.

It is also to be remembered that others had already set the example of
despoiling of her dignities the ancient Queen of the Nations. We have
seen how in the western half of the Empire great Imperial cities had
been rising within easy reach of the frontiers. In far-off Britain
London might be the most opulent city, but York was the chief residence
of the Cæsar of the West when he visited the island. In Gaul Treves had
outstripped Lyons in dignity and wealth, and was now the centre of
military and administrative power. Even in Italy Milan had grown at the
expense of Rome; it was nearer to the frontier and, therefore, nearer to
the armies. Rome lay out of the way. Diocletian, again, had favoured
Nicomedia in Bithynia. In other words, Rome was ceasing to be the one
centre of gravity of the ancient world, or, to express the same truth in
another form, the Roman world was ceasing to be one. Diocletian had
practically acknowledged this when he founded his system of Augusti and
Cæsars. With the subdivision of administrative and executive power there
naturally ceases to be one supreme metropolis. It would be a mistake to
suppose that Constantine, in founding a new Rome, deliberately hastened
the rapid tendency towards separation. The very name of “New Rome” which
he gave his city indicates his belief that he was merely moving Rome
from the Tiber to the Bosphorus—merely changing to a more convenient
site. But the fact that this name dropped out of use almost at once, and
that the city was called after him, not in Latin but in Greek, shews how
strongly the current was flowing towards political division.

[Illustration:

  THE GOLDEN HORN
          THE BOSPHORUS
    THE MARMORA

  CHART OF THE EASTERN SECTION OF MEDIÆVAL CONSTANTINOPLE.
  FROM GROSVENOR’S “CONSTANTINOPLE.”
]

But what attracted Constantine towards Byzantium? Precisely, of course,
those advantages of situation which have attracted modern statesmen.
Every one knows the story of how, after the Peace of Tilsit, the Tsar
Alexander constantly pressed Napoleon to allow him to take
Constantinople. Napoleon at length told his secretary, M. de Méneval, to
bring him the largest map of Europe which he could procure, and, after
poring over it for some time, he looked up and exclaimed,
“Constantinople! Never! It is the Empire of the world.” Was Napoleon
right? The publicists of to-day return different answers. The
Mediterranean is not the all-important sea it once was, and the
strategical importance of Constantinople has been greatly modified by
the Suez Canal and the British occupation of Egypt. But if Napoleon’s
exclamation seems rather theatrical to us, it would not have seemed so
to Constantine, whose world was so much smaller than ours and presented
such different strategical problems calling for solution. Constantine
had won the world when he defeated Licinius and captured Byzantium: he
determined to keep it where he had won it.

It is said by some of the late historians that he was long in coming to
a decision, and that he carefully weighed the rival claims of other
cities. There was his birthplace, Naissus, in Pannonia, though we cannot
suppose that Constantine seriously thought of making this his
metropolis. There was Sardica on the Danube, the modern Belgrade and
capital of Servia, a city well adapted by its position for playing an
important rôle in history, and conveniently near the most dangerous
frontier of the Empire. “My Rome is at Sardica,” Constantine was fond of
declaring at one period of his career, according to a tradition which
was perpetuated by the Byzantine historians. Another possible choice was
Nicomedia, which had commended itself to Diocletian, and, finally, there
was Salonica, which even now has only to fall into capable hands to
become one of the most prosperous cities of eastern Europe.

According to Zosimus, even when Constantine had determined to found his
new city at the point where Europe and Asia are divided by the narrow
straits, he selected first the Asiatic side. The historian says that he
actually began to build and that the foundations of the abandoned city
were still to be seen in his day between Troy and Pergamum. But the
story is more than doubtful. Legend has naturally been busy with the
circumstances attending the Emperor’s final choice of Byzantium. Was it
inspired, as some say, by the flight of an eagle from Chrysopolis
towards Byzantium? Or, while Constantine slept in Byzantium, did the
aged tutelar genius of the place appear to him in a dream and then
become transformed into a beautiful maiden, to whom he offered the
insignia of royalty? Interesting as these legends are, we need seek no
further explanation of Constantine’s choice than his own good judgment
and experience. He was fully aware of the extraordinary natural strength
of Byzantium, for his armies had found great difficulty in taking it by
assault; the supreme beauty of the site and its many other
qualifications for becoming a great capital were manifest to his eyes
every time he approached it. Byzantium had long been one of the most
renowned cities of antiquity. Even in the remotest times the imagination
of the Greeks had been powerfully affected by the stormy Euxine that lay
in what was to them the far north-east, guarding the Golden Fleece and
the Apples of the Hesperidæ, a wild region of big rivers, savage lands,
and boisterous seas. Daring seamen of Megara, in the seventh century
B.C., had effected a landing at the mouth of the Bosphorus, where Io had
fled across from Europe to Asia, turning their galleys up the smooth
estuary that still bears its ancient name of the Golden Horn. Apollo had
told them to fix their habitation “over against the city of the blind,”
and this they had rightly judged could be no other than Chalcedon, for
men must needs have been blind to choose the Asiatic in preference to
the European shore.

The little colony founded by Byzas, the Megarian, had prospered
marvellously, though it had experienced to the full all the vicissitudes
of fortune. It had fallen before the Persian King Darius; it had been
wrested from him after a long siege by Pausanias, the hero of Platæa,
when the Greeks rolled back the tide of invasion. In turn the subject
and successful rival of Athens, Byzantium gained new glory by
withstanding for two years the assaults of Philip of Macedon. Thanks to
the eloquence of Demosthenes, Athens sent help in the shape of ships and
men, and, in commemoration of a night attack of the Macedonians
successfully foiled by the opportune rising of the moon, Byzantium
placed upon her coins the crescent and the star, which for four
centuries and a half have been the familiar symbols of Turkish
sovereignty. Byzantium grew rich on commerce. It was the port of call at
which every ship entering or leaving the Bosphorus was bound to touch;
no craft sailed the Euxine without paying dues to the city at its mouth.
Polybius, in a very interesting passage,[120] points out how Byzantium
occupied “the most secure and advantageous position of any city in our
quarter of the world, as far as the sea is concerned.” Then he
continues:

  “The Pontus, therefore, being rich in what the rest of the world
  requires to support life, the Byzantines are absolute masters in this
  respect. For the first necessaries of existence, cattle and slaves,
  are admittedly supplied by the region of the Pontus in better quality
  and greater profusion than elsewhere. In the matter of luxuries, they
  supply us with honey, wax, and salt fish, while they take our
  superfluous olive oil and wines.”

-----

Footnote 120:

  Bk. IV., c. 38, _seq._

-----

It was Byzantium, therefore, which kept open the straits, and Polybius
speaks of the city as a common benefactor of the Greeks. When the Romans
began to appear on the scene as a world-power, Byzantium made terms with
the Senate. It well suited the Roman policy to have a powerful ally on
the Bosphorus, strong in the ships in which Rome was usually deficient.
As a _libera et fœderata civitas_, Byzantium enjoyed a more or less
prosperous history until the days of Vespasian, who stripped it of its
privileges. These were restored, but a shattering blow overtook the city
at the close of the second century, when Septimus Severus took it by
storm. Angry at its long resistance, Severus levelled its fortifications
to the ground,—a work of endless toil, for the stones and blocks had
been so clamped together that the walls were one solid mass. However,
before he died, he repented him of the destruction which he had wrought
and gave orders for the walls to be built anew. It was the Byzantium as
rebuilt by Severus that Constantine determined to refound on a far more
splendid scale.

[Illustration:

  BAPTISTERY OF SAN GIOVANNI IN LATERAN, ROME.
  PHOTOGRAPH BY ALINARI.
]

No subsequent historian has improved upon the glowing passage in which
Gibbon summarises the incomparable advantages of its site, which
appears, as he well says, to have been “founded by Nature for the centre
and capital of a great monarchy.” We may quote the passage in full from
his seventeenth chapter:

  “Situated in the forty-first degree of latitude—practically the same,
  it may be noted, as that of Rome, Madrid, and New York—the imperial
  city commanded from her seven hills the opposite shores of Europe and
  Asia; the climate was healthy and temperate; the soil fertile; the
  harbour secure and capacious; and the approach on the side of the
  continent was of small extent and easy of defence. The Bosphorus and
  Hellespont may be considered as the two gates of Constantinople; and
  the prince who procured those important passages could always shut
  them against a naval enemy and open them to the fleets of commerce.
  The preservation of the Eastern provinces may, in some degree, be
  ascribed to the policy of Constantine, as the barbarians of the
  Euxine, who, in the preceding age, had poured down their armaments
  into the heart of the Mediterranean, soon desisted from the exercise
  of piracy and despaired of facing this insurmountable barrier. When
  the gates of the Hellespont and Bosphorus were shut, the capital still
  enjoyed, within their spacious inclosure, every production which could
  supply the wants, or gratify the luxury, of its numerous inhabitants.
  The seacoasts of Thrace and Bithynia, which languish under the weight
  of Turkish oppression, still exhibit a rich prospect of vineyards, of
  gardens and plentiful harvests; and the Propontis has ever been
  renowned for an inexhaustible store of the most exquisite fish, that
  are taken in their stated seasons without skill and almost without
  labour. But, when the passages of the Straits were thrown open for
  trade, they alternately admitted the natural and artificial riches of
  the North and South, of the Euxine and the Mediterranean. Whatever
  rude commodities were collected in the forests of Germany and Scythia,
  as far as the sources of the Tanais and the Borysthenes, whatever was
  manufactured by the skill of Europe and of Asia, the corn of Egypt and
  the gems and spices of the farthest India, were brought by the varying
  winds into the port of Constantinople, which, for many ages, attracted
  the commerce of the ancient world.”

From a strategical point of view, it was of inestimable advantage that
the capital and military centre of the Empire should be within striking
distance of the route taken by the nomad populations of the East as they
pressed towards the West, at the head of the Euxine. The Scythians, the
Goths, and the Sarmatæ had all crossed that great region; the Huns were
to cross it in the coming centuries. Placed on shipboard at
Constantinople, the legions of the Empire could be swiftly conveyed into
the Euxine, and could penetrate up the Danube, Tanais, or Borysthenes to
confront the invaders where the danger threatened most.

The story of how Constantine marked out the boundaries of his new
capital is well known. Not content with the narrow limits of the ancient
city—which included little more than the district now known as Seraglio
Point—Constantine crossed the old boundary, spear in hand, and walked
with his attendants along the shores of the Propontis, tracing the line
as he went. His companions expressed astonishment that he continued so
far afield, and respectfully drew the Emperor’s attention to the
enormous circuit which the walls would have to enclose. Constantine
rebuked them. “I shall still advance,” he said, “until He, the invisible
guide who marches before me, thinks it right to stop.” The legend is
first found in Philostorgius, and it is not of much importance. But
Constantine, as usual, took care to foster the belief that his will was
God’s will, even in the matter of founding Constantinople, and that he
had but obeyed the clearly expressed command of Heaven. In one of his
edicts he incidentally refers to Constantinople as the city which he
founded in obedience to the mandate of God (_Jubente Deo_). It is a
phrase which has meant much or little according to the character of the
kings who have employed it. With Constantine it meant much, and, above
all, he wished it to mean much to his subjects.

Archæologists have not found it an easy task to trace the line of the
walls of Constantine, especially on the landward side. It followed the
coast of the Propontis from Seraglio Point, the Emperor adding height
and strength to the wall of Severus and extending it to the gate of St.
Æmilianus, which formed the south-west limit of his city. This section
was thrown down by an earthquake and had to be rebuilt by Arcadius and
Theodosius II. From St. Æmilianus the landward wall, with seven gates
and ninety-five towers, stretched across from the waters of the
Propontis to those of the Golden Horn, which was reached, it is
supposed, at a point near the modern Djubali Kapou. This was demolished
when the city had outgrown it, and Theodosius erected the new great wall
which still stands almost unimpaired. The course of the old one can
hardly be traced, but it is generally assumed that it did not include
all the seven hills of Constantinople, though New Rome, like Old Rome,
delighted in the epithet of Septicollis—the Seven-Hilled. Along the
Golden Horn no wall was built until five centuries had elapsed. On this
side Constantine considered that the city was adequately protected by
the waters of the estuary, closed against the attack of an enemy by a
huge iron chain, supported on floats, which stretched from the Acropolis
of St. Demetrius across to the modern Galata. Confidence in the
chain—some links of which are still preserved in the Turkish
arsenal—seems to have been thoroughly justified. Only once in all the
many sieges of Constantinople was it successfully pierced, when, in
1203, the Crusading Latins burst in upon the capital of the East.

Within the area we have described, great if compared with the original
Byzantium, but small in comparison with the size to which it grew by the
reign of Theodosius II., Constantine planned his city. Probably no great
capital has ever been built so rapidly. It was finished, or so nearly
finished that it was possible to hold a solemn service of dedication, by
May, 330—that is to say, within four years. Throughout that period
Constantine seems to have had no thought for anything else. He urged on
the work with an enthusiasm equal to that which Dido had manifested in
encouraging her Tyrians to raise the walls of Carthage,—_Instans operi
regnisque futuris._

The passion for bricks and mortar consumed him. Like Augustus, he
thought that a great imperial city could not be too lavishly adorned as
a visible proof of present magnificence and a guarantee of future
permanence. Nor was it in Constantinople alone that he built. Throughout
his reign new public buildings kept rising in Rome, Jerusalem, Antioch,
and the cities of Gaul. His impatience manifested itself in his letters
to his provincial governors. “Send me word,” he wrote imperiously to one
of them, “not that work has been started on your buildings, but that the
buildings are finished.” To build Constantinople he ransacked the entire
world, first for architects and builders, and then for art treasures.
With such impetuous haste there was sure to be scamped work. Some of the
buildings crumbled at the first slight tremor of earthquake or did not
even require that impulse from without to collapse into ruin. It is by
no means impossible that the havoc which seems to have been wrought in
Constantinople by earthquakes during the next two or three centuries was
largely due, not to the violence of the seismic disturbances but to
insecure foundations and bad materials. The cynical Julian compared the
city of Constantine to the fabled gardens of Adonis, which were planted
afresh each morning and withered anew each night. Doubtless there was a
substantial basis of fact for that bitter jibe.

Yet, when all allowances are made, it was a marvellous city which
Constantine watched as it rose from its foundation. Those who study the
archæology of Constantinople in the rich remains which have survived in
spite of Time and the Turk, are surprised to find how constantly the
history of the particular spot which they are studying takes them
straight back to Constantine. Despite the multitude of Emperors and
Sultans who have succeeded him, each anxious to leave his mark behind
him in stone, or brick, or marble, Constantinople is still the city of
Constantine. In the centre, he laid out the Augustæum, the ancient
equivalent, as it has well been pointed out, of the modern “Place
Imperiale.” It was a large open space, paved throughout in marble, but
of unknown shape, and historians have disagreed upon the probability of
its having been circular, square, or of the shape of a narrow rectangle.
It was full of noble statuary, and was surrounded by an imposing pile of
stately buildings. To the north lay the great church of Sancta Sophia;
on the east the Senate House of the Augustæum, so called to distinguish
it from the Senate House of the Forum; on the south lay the palace,
entered by an enormous brazen gate, called Chalce, the palace end of the
Hippodrome, and the Baths of Zeuxippus. The street connecting the
Augustæum with the Forum of Constantine was known as Μέση, or
Middle-street, and was entered on the western side. In the Augustæum,
which later Emperors filled with famous statues, there stood in
Constantine’s day a single marble column known as the Milion—from which
were measured distances throughout the Empire,—a marble group
representing Constantine and Helena standing on either side of a
gigantic cross, and a second statue of Helena upon a pedestal of
porphyry. It was in this Augustæum, moreover, that was to stand for a
thousand years the huge equestrian statue of Justinian, known through
all the world and described by many a traveller before the capture of
the city by the Turks, who broke it into a thousand pieces.

[Illustration:

  ST. HELENA AND THE CROSS.
  BY CRANACH. LICHTENSTEIN GALLERY, VIENNA.
]

To the west of the Augustæum lay the Forum of Constantine, elliptical in
form and surrounded by noble colonnades, which terminated at either end
in a spacious portico in the shape of a triumphal arch. In the centre,
which, according to an old tradition, marked the very spot on which
Constantine had pitched his camp when besieging Licinius, stood, and
still stands, though in sadly mutilated and shattered guise, the Column
of Constantine, which has long been known either as the Burnt Pillar,
owing to the damage which it has suffered by fire, or as the Porphyry
Pillar, because of the material of which it was composed. There were
eight drums of porphyry in all, brought specially from Rome, each about
ten feet in height, bound with wide bands of brass wrought into the
shape of laurel wreaths. These rested upon a stylobate of white marble,
some nineteen feet high, which in turn stood upon a stereobate of
similar height composed of four spacious steps. Sacred relics were
enclosed—or are said to have been enclosed—within this pediment,
including things so precious as Mary Magdalene’s alabaster box, the
crosses of the two thieves who had suffered with Christ upon Mount
Calvary, the adze with which Noah had fashioned the Ark out of rough,
primeval timber, and—in strange company—the very Palladium of ancient
Rome, transported from the Capitol to an alien and a rival soil. At the
foot of the column there was placed the following inscription: “O
Christ, Ruler and Master of the world, to Thee have I now consecrated
this obedient city and this sceptre and the power of Rome. Guard and
deliver it from every harm.”

[Illustration:

  COLUMN OF CONSTANTINE THE GREAT.
  FROM GROSVENOR’S “CONSTANTINOPLE.”
]

At the summit of the column was a colossal statue of Apollo in bronze,
filched from Athens, where it was believed to be a genuine example of
Pheidias. But before the statue had been raised into position, it
suffered unworthy mutilation. The head of Apollo was removed and
replaced by a head of Constantine. This may be interpreted as a
confession of the sculptors of the day that they were unable to produce
a statue worthy of their great Emperor; but the fact that a statue of
Apollo was chosen for this doubtful honour of mutilation is worth at
least passing remark, when we remember that before his conversion
Constantine had selected Apollo for special reverence. It is certainly
strange that the first Christian Emperor should have been willing to be
represented, on the site which was ever afterwards to be associated with
his name, by a statue round which clustered so many pagan associations.
He did not even disdain the pagan inscription, “To Constantine shining
like the Sun”; nor did he reject the pagan attribute of a radiated crown
around the head. In the right hand of Apollo the old Greek artist had
placed a lance; in the left a globe. That globe was now surmounted by a
cross and lo! Apollo had become Constantine; the most radiant of the
gods of Olympus had become the champion of Christ upon earth. The fate
of this statue—which was held in such superstitious reverence that for
centuries all horsemen dismounted before passing it, while below it, on
every first day of September, Emperor, Patriarch, and clergy assembled
to chant hymns of prayer and praise—may be briefly told. In 477 the
globe was thrown down by an earthquake. The lance suffered a like fate
in 541, while the statue itself came crashing to earth in 1105, killing
a number of persons in its fall. The column was then surmounted by a
cross, and fire and time have reduced it to its present almost shapeless
and unrecognisable mass.

Close to the Augustæum there began to rise the stately magnificence of
the Imperial Palace, the Great Palace, τὸ μέγα παλάτιον, as it was
called to distinguish it from all others. This was really a cluster of
palaces spread over an enormous area, a self-contained city within
itself, strongly protected with towers and walls. Here were the Imperial
residences, gardens, churches, barracks, and baths, and for eight
hundred years, until this quarter was forsaken for the palace of
Blachernæ in another region of the city, Emperors continued to build and
rebuild on this favoured site. In later years the Great Palace consisted
of an interconnected group of buildings bearing such names as
Chrysotriklinon, Trikonchon, Daphne,—so called from a diviner’s column
brought to Constantinople from the Grove of Daphne near Antioch,—Chalce,
Boucoleon, and Manavra. One at least of these dated back to Constantine.
This was the Porphyry Palace, with a high pyramidal roof, constructed of
porphyry brought especially from Rome. It was dedicated to the service
of the ladies of the Imperial Family, who retired thither to be away
from the vexations, intrigues, and anxieties of every-day life during
the time of their pregnancy. In the seclusion of this Porphyry Palace
they were undisturbed and secure, and the children born within walls
thus sacred to Imperial maternity were distinguished by the title of
“Porphyrogeniti,” which plays so prominent a part in Byzantine history.

Constantine built below ground as well as above. One of the principal
drawbacks—perhaps the only one—to the perfect suitability of the site of
Constantinople was that it contained very few natural springs. Water,
therefore, had to be brought into the town by gigantic aqueducts and
stored in cisterns, some small, some of enormous size, which must have
cost fabulous sums. The two greatest of these are still in good
preservation after nearly sixteen centuries of use. One is the Cistern
of Philoxenos, called by the Turks Bin Bir Derek, or the Thousand and
One Columns. The columns stand in sixteen rows of fourteen columns each,
each column consisting of three shafts, and each shaft being eighteen
feet in height, though all the lower and most of the middle tiers have
long been hidden by masses of impacted earth. Philoxenos, whose name is
thus immortalised in this stupendous work, came to Constantinople from
Rome at the request of the Emperor, and lavished his fortune upon the
construction of this cistern in proof of his public spirit and in order
to please his master. Assistance was also invited from the public. And
just as in our own day subscriptions are often coaxed out of reluctant
purses by deft appeal to the harmless vanity which delights to see one’s
own name inscribed upon a foundation stone, so in this Cistern of
Philoxenos there are still to be deciphered upon the columns the names
of the donors, names, as Mr. Grosvenor points out in his most
interesting account of these cisterns, which are wholly Greek. “It is a
striking evidence,” he says, “how little Roman was the Romanised
capital, that every inscription is in Greek.” The second great cistern
is the Royal or Basilike Cistern, begun by Constantine and restored by
Justinian, which is called by the Turks Yeri Batan Serai, or the
Underground Palace. This is supported by three hundred and thirty-six
columns, standing twelve feet apart in twenty-eight symmetrical rows.
The cistern is three hundred and ninety feet long and a hundred and
seventy-four feet wide, and still supplies water from the Aqueduct of
Valens as fresh as when its first stone was laid.

The chief glories of Constantinople, however, were the Hippodrome and
the churches. With the latter we may deal very briefly, the more so
because the world-renowned St. Sophia is not the St. Sophia which
Constantine built, but the work of Justinian. Constantine’s church, on
which he and many of his successors lavished their treasures, was burnt
to the ground and utterly consumed in the tumult of the Nika which laid
half the city in ashes. Nor had St. Sophia been intended to be the
metropolitan church. That distinction belonged to the church which
Constantine had dedicated not to the Wisdom but to the Peace of God, to
St. Irene. It, too, shared the fate of the sister church in the tumult
of the Nika, and was similarly rebuilt by Justinian. This was regarded
as the Patriarchal church and called by that name, for here the
Patriarch conducted the daily services, since the church had no clergy
of its own. It was at the high altar of St. Irene that the Patriarch
Alexander in 335 prayed day and night that God would choose between
himself and Arius; while the answer—or what was taken for the answer—was
delivered at the foot of Constantine’s Column. It was in this church
nearly half a century later that the great Arian controversy was ended
in 381, and here that the Holy Spirit was declared equal to the Father
and the Son. Since the Ottoman conquest this church—the sole survivor of
all that in Byzantine times once stood in the region of what is now the
Seraglio—has been used as an arsenal and military museum. On its walls
hang suits of armour, helmets, maces, spears, and swords of a bygone
age, while the ground floor is stacked with modern rifles. The temple of
“the Peace that Passeth Understanding” has been transformed into a
temple of war. Mr. Grosvenor well sums up its history in the fine
phrase, “Saint Irene is a prodigious hearthstone, on which all the ashes
of religion and of triumph and surrender have grown cold.”

There is yet another church in Constantinople which calls for notice. It
is the one which Constantine dedicated to the Holy Trinity, though its
name was soon afterwards changed to that of the Holy Apostles, in honour
of the remains of Timothy, Andrew, and Luke, the body of St. Mathias,
the head of James, the brother of Jesus, and the head of St. Euphemia,
which were enshrined under the great High Altar. So rich a store of
relics was held to justify the change of name. It was from the pulpit of
this Church of the Holy Apostles that John Chrysostom denounced the
Empress Eudoxia, but the chief title of the building to remembrance is
that it was for centuries the Mausoleum of Constantinople’s Emperors and
Patriarchs. None but members of the reigning house, or the supreme Heads
of the Eastern Church, were accorded burial within its walls.
Constantine built a splendid Heroon at the entrance, just as Augustus
had built a magnificent Mausoleum on the Field of Mars. When it could
hold no more, Justinian built another. Each monarch, robed and crowned
in death as in life, had a marble sarcophagus of his own; no one church
in the world’s history can ever have contained the dust of so much
royalty, sanctity, and orthodoxy. Apart from the rest lay the tombs of
Julian the Apostate and the four Arian Emperors, as though cut off from
communion with their fellows, and removed as far outside the pale as the
respect due to an anointed Emperor would permit. It was not the
conquering Ottoman but the Latin Crusaders, the robbers of the West, who
pillaged the sacred tombs, stole their golden ornaments, and flung aside
the bones which had reposed there during the centuries.

[Illustration:

  THE THREE EXISTING MONUMENTS OF THE HIPPODROME.
  FROM GROSVENOR’S “CONSTANTINOPLE.”
]

We pass from the churches to the Hippodrome, a Campus Martius and
Coliseum combined, which now bears the Turkish name of Atmeidan, a
translation of its ancient Greek name. Its glories have passed away. It
has shrunk to little more than a third of its original proportions, and
is merely a rough exercise ground surrounded by houses. But it preserves
within its attenuated frame three of the most famous monuments of
antiquity, around which it is possible to recreate its ancient
splendours. These three monuments are the Egyptian obelisk, the Serpent
Pillar, and a crumbling column that looks as though it must snap and
fall in the first storm that blows. They preserve for us the exact line
of the old spina, round which the charioteers used to drive their steeds
in furious rivalry. The obelisk stood exactly in the centre of the
building, which was shaped like a narrow magnet with long arms. From the
obelisk to the middle of the sphendone—that is to say, the curving top
of a magnet, or the loop of a sling—was 691 feet, while the width was
395 feet. The Hippodrome, therefore, was nearly 1400 feet long by 400
wide, the proportions of three and a half to one being those of the
Circus Maximus at Rome. It lay north-north-east, conforming in shape to
the Augustæum. The Hippodrome had been begun in 203 by Severus, to whom
belongs the credit of having conceived its stupendous plan, but it had
remained uncompleted for a century and a quarter.

At the northern end, reaching straight across from side to side, was a
lofty structure, raised upon pillars and enclosed within gates. Here
were the stables and storehouses, known to the Romans by the name of
Carceres and to the Greeks as Mangana. Above was a broad tribunal, in
the centre of which, and supported by marble pillars, stood the
Kathisma, with the throne of the Emperor well in front. This, in modern
parlance, was the Royal Box, and, when the Emperor was present, the
tribunal below was thronged with the high dignitaries of State and the
Imperial Bodyguard, while, in front of the throne, but at a rather lower
level, was the pillared platform, called the Pi, where stood the royal
standard-bearers. Behind this entire structure, fully three hundred feet
wide and so spacious that it was dignified with the name of palace and
contained long suites of royal apartments, was the Church of St.
Stephen, through which, by means of a spiral stairway, access was
obtained to the Kathisma. It was always used by the Emperor on his
visits to the Hippodrome, and was considered to be profaned if trodden
by meaner mortals. The palace, raised as it was over the stables of the
Hippodrome and looking down the entire length of the arena, had no
communication with the body of the building, and on either side the long
arms of the Hippodrome terminated in blank walls. The first tier of
seats, known as the Bouleutikon or Podium, was raised thirteen feet
above the arena. This was the place of distinction. At the back rose
tier upon tier, broken half-way by a wide passage, while at the very top
of all was a broad promenade running right round the building from pole
to pole of the magnet. This was forty feet above the ground, and the
benches and promenades were composed of gleaming marble raised upon
arches of brick. There was room here for eighty thousand spectators to
assemble in comfort, and one seems to hear ringing down the ages the
frenzied shouts of the multitudes which for centuries continued to
throng this mighty building, of which now scarce one stone stands upon
another. Mr. Grosvenor very justly says that

  “no theatre, no palace, no public building has to-day a promenade so
  magnificent.... Within was all the pomp and pageantry of all possible
  imperial and popular contest and display; without, piled high around,
  were the countless imposing structures ‘of that city which for more
  than half a thousand years was the most elegant, the most civilised,
  almost the only civilised and polished city in the world.’ Beyond was
  the Golden Horn, crowded with shipping; the Bosphorus in its winding
  beauty; the Marmora, studded with islands and fringing the Asiatic
  coast, the long line of the Arganthonius Mountains and the peaks of
  the Bithynian Olympus, glittering with eternal snow—all combining in a
  panorama which even now no other city of mankind can rival.”

[Illustration:

  PLAN OF THE HIPPODROME.
  FROM GROSVENOR’S “CONSTANTINOPLE.”
]

In the middle of the arena stood the spina, a marble wall, four feet
high and six hundred feet long, with the Goal of the Blues at the
northern end facing the throne, and that of the Greens facing the
sphendone. The spina was decorated with the choicest statuary, including
the three surviving monuments. Of these the Egyptian obelisk, belonging
to the reign of Thotmes III., had already stood for more centuries in
Egypt than have elapsed since Constantine transported it to his new
capital. When it arrived, the engineers could not raise it into position
and it remained prone until, in 381, one Proclus, a præfect of the city,
succeeded in erecting it upon copper cubes. The shattered column belongs
to a much later epoch than that of Constantine. It was set up by
Constantine VIII. Porphyrogenitus, and once glittered in the sun, for it
was covered with plates of burnished brass. The third, and by far the
most interesting monument of the three, is the famous column of twisted
serpents from Delphi. Its romantic history never grows dull by
repetition. For this is that serpent column of Corinthian brass which
was dedicated to Apollo by the thankful and exultant Greeks after the
battle of Platæa, when the hosts of the Persian Xerxes were thrust back
from the soil of Greece never to return. It bears upon its coils the
names of the thirty-one Greek cities which fought for freedom, and there
is still to be seen, inscribed in slightly larger characters than the
rest, the name of the Tenians, who, as Herodotus tells us, succeeded in
proving to the satisfaction of their sister states that they deserved
inclusion in so honourable a memorial. The history of this column from
the fifth century before the Christian era down to the present time is
to be read in a long succession of Greek, Roman, mediæval, and modern
historians; and as late as the beginning of the eighteenth century the
three heads of the serpents were still in their place. But even in its
mutilated state there is perhaps no relic of antiquity which can vie in
interest with this column, associated as it was in the day of its
fashioning with Pausanias and Themistocles, with Xerxes and with
Mardonius. We have then to think of it standing for seven centuries in
the holiest place of all Hellas, the shrine of Apollo at Delphi. There
it was surmounted by a golden tripod, on which sat the priestess who
uttered the oracles which, in important crises, prompted the policy and
guided the development of the cities of Greece. The column is hollow,
and it is possible that the mephitic exhalations, which are supposed to
have stupefied the priestess when she was possessed by the god, mounted
up the interior of the spiral. The golden tripod was stolen during the
wars with Philip of Macedon; Constantine replaced it by another when he
brought the column from Delphi to Constantinople. And there, surviving
all the vicissitudes through which the city has passed, still stands the
column, still fixed to the pedestal upon which Constantine mounted it,
many feet below the present level of the Atmeidan, still an object of
superstition to Christian as well as to the Turk, and owing, no doubt,
its marvellous preservation to the indefinable awe which clings, even in
ruin, to the sacred relics of a discredited religion.

[Illustration:

  THE SERPENT OF DELPHI.
  FROM GROSVENOR’S “CONSTANTINOPLE.”
]

To the Hippodrome itself there were four principal entrances. The gate
of the Blues was close by the Carceres or Mangana, on the western side,
with the gate of the Greens facing it. At the other end, just where the
long straight line was broken and the building began to curve into the
sphendone, was a gate on the eastern side which bore the ill-omened name
of the Gate of the Dead, opposite another, the name of which is not
known. The gate of the Blues—the royal faction—was the grand entrance
for all state processions.

Such was the outward form of the famous Hippodrome, and Mr. Grosvenor
justly dwells on the imposing vastness and beauty of its external
appearance.

  “The walls were of brick, laid in arches and faced by a row of
  Corinthian pillars. What confronted the spectator’s eye was a wall in
  superposed and continuous arches, seen through an endless colonnade.
  Seventeen columns were still erect upon their bases in 1529. Gyllius,
  who saw them, says that their diameter was three and eleven-twelfths
  feet. Each was twenty-eight feet high, and pedestal and capital added
  seven feet more. They stood eleven feet apart. Hence, deducting for
  the gates, towers, and palace, at least two hundred and sixty columns
  would be required in the circuit. If one, with the curiosity of a
  traveller, wished to journey round the entire perimeter, he must
  continue on through a distance of three thousand and fifteen feet,
  before his pilgrimage ended at the spot where it had begun; and ever,
  as he toiled along, there loomed into the air that prodigious mass,
  forty feet above his head. No wonder that there remained, even in the
  time of the Sultan Souleiman, enough to construct that most superb of
  mosques, the Souleimanieh, from the fallen columns, the splintered
  marbles, the brick and stone of the Hippodrome.”

But it was not merely the shell of the Hippodrome that was imposing by
reason of its size and magnificence. It was filled with the choicest art
treasures of the ancient world. Constantine stole masterpieces with the
catholicity of taste, the excellence of artistic judgment, and the
callous indifference to the rights of ownership which characterised
Napoleon. He stripped the world naked of its treasures, as St. Jerome
neatly remarked.[121] Rome and its conquering proconsuls and proprætors
had done the same. Constantine now robbed Rome and took whatever Rome
had left. Greece was still a fruitful quarry. We have already spoken of
the Serpent Column, which was torn from Delphi. The historians have
preserved for us the names of a number of other famous works of art
which adorned the spina and the promenade of the Hippodrome. There was a
Brazen Eagle, clutching a withing snake in its talons and rising in the
air with wings outspread; the Hercules of Lysippus, of a size so heroic
that it measured six feet from the foot to the knee; the Brazen Ass and
its driver, a mere copy of which Augustus had offered to his own city of
Nicopolis founded on the shores of Actium; the Poisoned Bull; the Angry
Elephant; the gigantic figure of a woman holding in her hand a horse and
its rider of life size; the Calydonian Boar; eight Sphinxes, and last,
but by no means least, the Horses of Lysippus. These horses have a
history with which no other specimens of equine statuary can compare.
They first adorned a temple at Corinth. Taken to Rome by Memmius when he
laid Corinth in ashes, they were placed before the Senate House. Nero
removed them that they might grace his triumphal arch; Trajan, with
juster excuse, did the same. Constantine had them sent to
Constantinople. Then, after nearly nine centuries had passed, they were
again packed up and transported back to Italy. The aged Dandolo had
claimed them as part of his share of the booty and sent them to Venice.
There they remained for almost six centuries more until Napoleon cast
covetous eyes upon them and had them taken to Paris to adorn his Arc de
Triomphe. On his downfall Paris was compelled to restore them to Venice
and the horses of Lysippus paw the air once more above the roof of St.
Mark’s Cathedral.

-----

Footnote 121:

  _Constantinopolis dedicatur pæne omnium urbium nuditate._

-----

We have thus briefly enumerated the most magnificent public buildings
with which Constantine adorned his new capital, and the choicest works
of art with which these were further embellished. The Emperor pressed on
the work with extraordinary activity. No one believes the story of
Codinus that only nine months elapsed between the laying of the first
stone and the formal dedication which took place in the Hippodrome on
May 11th, 330, but it is only less wonderful that so much should have
been done in four years. The same untrustworthy author also tells a
strange story of how Constantine took advantage of the absence of some
of his officers on public business to build exact models of their Roman
mansions in Constantinople, and transport all their household
belongings, families, and households to be ready for them on their
return as a pleasant surprise. What is beyond doubt is that the Emperor
did offer the very greatest inducements to the leading men of Rome to
leave Rome for good and make Constantinople their home. He even
published an edict that no one dwelling in Asia Minor should be allowed
to enter the Imperial service unless he built himself a house in
Constantinople. Peter the Great issued a like order when he founded St.
Petersburg and opened a window looking on Europe. The Emperor changed
the destination of the corn ships of Egypt from Rome to Constantinople,
established a lavish system of distributions of wheat and oil and even
of money and wine, and created at the cost of the treasury an idle and
corrupt proletariate. He thus transported to his new capital all the
luxuries and vices of the old.

------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER XIV
                          ARIUS AND ATHANASIUS


We have seen how, at the conclusion of the Council of Nicæa, it looked
as if the Church had entered into her rest. The day of persecution was
over; Christianity had found in the Emperor an ardent and impetuous
champion; a creed had been framed which seemed to establish upon a sure
foundation the deepest mysteries of the faith; heresy not only lay under
anathema, but had been reduced to silence. Throughout the East—the West
had remained practically untroubled—the feeling was one of confidence
and joy. Constantine rejoiced as though he had won a personal victory;
his subjects, we are told,[122] thought the kingdom of Christ had
already begun. When Gregory, the Illuminator of Armenia, met his son,
Aristaces, returning from Nicæa and heard from his lips the text of the
new creed, he at once exclaimed: “Yea, we glorify Him who was before the
ages, by adoring the Holy Trinity and the one Godhead of the Father, and
of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, now and for ever, through ages and
ages.”

-----

Footnote 122:

  _De Vita Const._, iii., c. 14.

-----

Moreover, the Emperor’s violent edicts against the Arians, and the
banishment of Eusebius and Theognis, all indicated a settled and rooted
conviction which nothing could shake, while the death of the Patriarch
Alexander of Alexandria and the election of Athanasius in his stead must
have strengthened enormously the Catholic party in Egypt and, indeed,
throughout the East. Alexander had died within a few months of his
return from Nicæa, in the early part of 326. He is said, when on his
death-bed, to have foretold the elevation of Athanasius and the trials
which lay before him. He had called for Athanasius—who at the moment was
away from Egypt—and another Athanasius, who was present in the room,
answered for the absent one. The dying man, however, was not deceived
and said: “Athanasius, you think you have escaped, but you will not; you
cannot.” We need not recount the stories which the malignity of his
enemies invented in order to cast discredit upon Athanasius’ election.
There is no reason to doubt either its validity or its overwhelming
popularity in Alexandria, where, while the Egyptian bishops were in
session, the Catholics outside the building kept up the unceasing cry:
“Give us Athanasius, the good, the holy, the ascetic.” The election was
not unanimous. Evidently some thought the situation required a
conciliatory demeanour towards the beaten Arians. But that was not the
view of the majority, who, by choosing Athanasius, set the best fighting
man on their side upon the throne of St. Mark. They did wisely.
Tolerance was not properly understood in the fourth century.

The outward peace lasted little more than two years. Unfortunately, we
are almost entirely in the dark as to what took place during that time,
beyond the certain fact of the recall of Arius, Eusebius, and Theognis.
Arius had been banished to Galatia; then we read of the sentence being
partially revoked, and the only embargo placed upon his freedom of
movement was that he was forbidden to return to Alexandria. Did this
take place before the recall of Eusebius and Theognis? Socrates gives
the text of a strange letter written by these two prelates to the
principal bishops of the Church, in which they definitely say that,
inasmuch as Arius has been recalled from exile, they hope the bishops
will use their influence with the Emperor on their behalf.

  “After closely studying the question of the Homoousion,” they say, “we
  are wholly intent on preserving peace and we have been seduced by no
  heresy. We subscribed to the Creed, after suggesting what we thought
  best for the Church, but we refused to sign the anathema, not because
  we had any fault to find with the Creed, but because we did not
  consider Arius to be what he was represented as being. The letters we
  had received from him and the discourses we had heard him deliver
  compelled us to form a totally different estimate of his character.”

The authenticity of this letter has been sharply called in question, for
there is no other scrap of evidence confirming the statement that Arius
was recalled before Eusebius and Theognis—in itself a most improbable
step. Constantine had issued an edict that any one concealing a copy of
the writings of Arius and not instantly handing it over to the
authorities to be burnt, should be put to death, and it is much more
probable that Arius was recalled after, rather than before, Eusebius of
Nicomedia. The “History” of Socrates contains many letters of doubtful
authenticity and some which are, beyond dispute, forgeries. Among the
latter we may certainly include the portentously long document in which
Constantine is represented as making a grossly personal attack on the
banished Arius. We will content ourselves with quoting the most
vituperative passage:

  “Look! Look all of you! See what wretched cries he utters, writhing in
  pain from the bite of the serpent’s tooth! See how his veins and flesh
  are poison-tainted and what agonised convulsions they excite! See how
  his body is wasted away with disease and squalor, with dirt and
  lamentation, with pallor and horror! See how he is withered up with a
  thousand evils! See how horrible to look upon is his filthy tangled
  head of hair; how he is half dead from top to toe; how languid is the
  aspect of his haggard, bloodless face; how madness, fury, and vanity,
  swooping down upon him together, have reduced him to what he is—a
  savage and wild beast! He does not even recognise the horrible
  situation he is in. ‘I am beside myself with joy’; he says, ‘I dance
  and leap with glee; I fly; I am a happy boy again.’”

[Illustration:

  ST. ATHANASIUS.
  FROM THE BRITISH MUSEUM PRINT ROOM.
]

Assuredly this raving production never came from the pen of Constantine,
and it bears no resemblance to his ordinary style. The resounding
platitude with which it opens, “An evil interpreter is really the image
and counterpart of the Devil,” leads us confidently to acquit the
Emperor of its authorship and ascribe it to some anonymous and unknown
ecclesiastic desirous at once of edifying and terrifying the faithful.

We can only surmise the circumstances which worked upon the Emperor’s
mind and caused his complete change of front with respect to Arianism
and its exponents. Sozomen, indeed, attributes it wholly to the
influence of his sister, Constantia. According to an Arian legend quoted
by that historian, it was revealed to the Princess in “a vision from
God” that it was the exiled bishops who held the true orthodox doctrine
and, therefore, that they had been unjustly banished. She worked upon
the impressionable mind of her brother, and the two bishops were
recalled. When Constantine asked whether they still held the Nicene
doctrines to which they had subscribed, they replied that they had
assented, not from conviction, but from the fear lest the Emperor should
be disgusted at the dissensions among the Christians, and revert to
paganism. This curious story certainly tends to confirm the tradition
that it was Constantia who was the court patroness of the Arians. She
had been for years Empress in the palace of Nicomedia, and it is easy to
suppose that the very able Bishop of that city had established a strong
ascendency over her mind, long before the Arian controversy arose.

The upshot of the whole matter—however the change was brought about—was
that in the year 329, the Arian and Eusebian party was paramount at the
Imperial Court. They had persuaded the Emperor that theirs was the party
of reason, and that those who persisted in troubling the peace of the
Church by holding extreme views and seeking to impose rigorous tests
were the followers of the new Patriarch of Alexandria. They had
subscribed to the Nicene Creed or to a Creed which—so they persuaded the
Emperor—was practically indistinguishable from it, and they now plotted,
with great skill and adroitness, to undermine the position of
Athanasius. How they conducted the intrigue we do not know, but it is
significant that after the break up of the Council of Nicæa we hear no
more, during Constantine’s lifetime, of his long-trusted adviser Hosius,
Bishop of Cordova. The dreadful tragedies in the Imperial Family had
taken place at Rome in the summer of 326. It is possible that Hosius
made no secret of his horror at these monstrous crimes and retired to
his Spanish bishopric, and that Eusebius of Nicomedia, when brought into
communication with Constantine, was not so exacting in his demand for a
show of penitence and proved more skilful in allaying the Emperor’s
remorse. Be that as it may, as soon as Eusebius felt assured of his
position, he lost no time in prosecuting a vigorous campaign against
those who had triumphed over him at Nicæa. The first blow was directed
against Eustathius, the Bishop of Antioch, who was charged with heresy,
profligacy, and tyranny by the two Eusebii and a number of other
bishops, then on their way to Jerusalem. Whether the charges were well
founded or not, the tribunal was a prejudiced one and the sentence of
deprivation and banishment passed upon Eustathius was bitterly resented
in Antioch.

After certain other bishops had met with a like fate, the Eusebii flew
at higher game and attacked Athanasius. They had already entered into an
understanding with the Meletian faction in Egypt, who carefully kept
alive the charges against Athanasius, and now they again took up the
cudgels on behalf of Arius. Eusebius wrote to the Patriarch asking him
to restore Arius to communion on the ground that he had been grievously
misrepresented. Athanasius bluntly refused. Arius, he said, had started
a deadly heresy: he had been anathematised by an Œcumenical Council:
how, then, could he be restored to communion? Eusebius and Arius
appealed to the Emperor. Constantine, who had previously ordered Arius
to attend at court and promised him signal proof of his regard and
permission to return to Alexandria, sent a peremptory message to
Athanasius bidding him admit Arius. When Athanasius, on the score of
conscience, returned a steady refusal, the Emperor angrily threatened
that, if he did not throw open his church doors to all who desired to
enter, he would send an officer to turn him out of his church and expel
him from Alexandria. “Now that you have full knowledge of my will,” he
added, “see that you provide uninterrupted entry to all who wish to
enter the church. If I hear that you have prevented any one from joining
the services, or have shut the doors in their faces, I will at once
despatch some one to deport you from Alexandria.” The threat did not
terrify Athanasius, who declared that there could be no fellowship
between heretics and true believers. Nor was the Imperial officer sent.

Then began an extraordinary campaign of calumny against the Patriarch,
who was accused of taxing Egypt in order to buy a supply of linen
garments, called “sticharia,” for his church; of instigating one
Macarius to upset a communion table and break a sacred chalice; of
murdering a Meletian bishop named Arsenius, who was presently found
alive and well; and of other crimes equally preposterous and unfounded.
It was the Meletian irreconcilables in Egypt who brought these calumnies
forward, but Athanasius had no doubt that the moving spirit was none
other than Eusebius himself. And his enemies, whoever they were, were
untiring and implacable. As soon as one calumny was refuted, they were
ready with another, and all this time there was Eusebius at the
Emperor’s side, continually suggesting that with so much smoke there
needs must be some fire, and that Athanasius ought to be called upon to
clear himself, lest the scandal should do injury to the Church.
Constantine summoned a council to try Athanasius in 333, and fixed the
place of meeting in Cæsarea,—a tolerably certain proof that the two
Eusebii were acting in concert. For some reason not stated the bishops
did not assemble until the following year, and then Athanasius refused
to attend. Not until 335 did Athanasius stand before his episcopal
judges at Tyre.

Accompanied by some fifty of his suffragans, Athanasius had made the
journey, only to find himself confronted by a packed council. All his
bitterest enemies were there; all the old unsubstantiated charges were
resuscitated. His election was said to be uncanonical; he was charged
with personal unchastity and with cruelty towards certain Meletian
bishops and priests; and, most curious of all, the ancient calumnies of
“The Broken Chalice” and “The Dead Man’s Hand” were revived and pressed,
as though they had never been confuted. With respect to the latter
charge, Athanasius enjoyed one moment of signal triumph. After his
accusers had caused a thrill of horror to pass through the Council by
producing a blackened and withered hand, which they declared to belong
to the missing Bishop Arsenius, who was supposed to have suffered foul
play, Athanasius asked whether any of those present had known Arsenius
personally. A number of bishops claimed acquaintance, and then
Athanasius gave the signal for a man, who was standing by closely
muffled in a cloak, to come forward. “Lift up your head!” said
Athanasius. The unknown did so, and lo! it was none other than Arsenius
himself. Athanasius drew aside the cloak, first from one hand and then
from the other. “Has God given to any man,” he asked quietly, “more
hands than two?” His enemies were silenced, but only for the moment. One
of them, cleverer than the rest, immediately exclaimed that this was
mere sorcery and devil’s work; the man was not Arsenius; in fact, he was
not even a man at all, but a mere counterfeit, an illusion of the senses
produced by Athanasius’ horrible proficiency in the black art. And we
are told that this ingenious explanation proved so convincing to the
assembly, and created such a fury of resentment against Athanasius, that
Dionysius, the Imperial officer who had been deputed by Constantine to
represent him at the Council, had to hurry Athanasius on shipboard to
save him from personal violence.

There was clearly so little corroborative evidence against Athanasius
that the Council dared not convict him. But, as they were equally
determined not to acquit him, they appointed a commission of enquiry to
collect testimony on the spot in the Mareotis district of Egypt with
respect to the story of the Broken Chalice. The six commissioners were
chosen in secret session by the anti-Athanasian faction. Athanasius
protested without avail against the selection: they were all, he said,
his private enemies. The commission sailed for Egypt, and Athanasius
determined, with characteristic boldness, to go to Constantinople,
confront the Emperor, and appeal for justice and a fair trial at the
fountainhead. Athanasius met the Emperor as he was riding into the city,
and stood before him in his path. What followed is best told by
Constantine himself in a letter which he wrote to the Bishop of
Tyre.[123] Here are his own words:

  “As I was returning on horseback to the city which bears my name,
  Athanasius, the Bishop, presented himself so unexpectedly in the
  middle of the highway, with certain individuals who accompanied him,
  that I felt exceedingly surprised on beholding him. God, who sees all,
  is my witness that at first I did not know who he was, but some of my
  attendants, having ascertained this and the subject of his complaint,
  gave me the necessary information. I did not accord him an interview,
  but he persevered in requesting an audience, and, although I refused
  him and was on the point of ordering that he should be removed from my
  presence, he told me, with greater boldness than he had previously
  manifested, that he sought no other favour of me than that I should
  summon you hither, in order that he might, in your presence, complain
  of the injustice that had been done to him.”

-----

Footnote 123:

  Sozomen II., 28.

-----

Such boldness had the success it deserved. Constantine evidently made
enquires from Count Dionysius, and, discovering that the Council at Tyre
was a mere travesty of justice, ordered the bishops to come forthwith to
Constantinople. But before these instructions reached them they had
received the report of the Egyptian commissioners, and, on the strength
of it, had condemned Athanasius by a majority of votes, recognised the
Meletians as orthodox, and, adjourning to Jerusalem for the dedication
of the new church, had there pronounced Arius to be a true Catholic and
in full communion with the Church. The Emperor’s letter, which began
with a reference to the “tumults and disorders” which had marked their
sessions, was a plain intimation that he disapproved of their
proceedings, and only six bishops, the two Eusebii and four others,
travelled up to Constantinople. Arrived there, they changed their
tactics, and recognising that the old charges against Athanasius had
fallen helplessly to the ground, they invented another which was much
more likely to have weight with the Emperor. They accused him of seeking
to prevent the Alexandrian corn ships from sailing to Constantinople.
Egypt was the granary of the new Rome as well as of the old, and upon
the regular arrival of the Egyptian wheat cargoes the tranquillity of
Constantinople largely depended. Athanasius protested that he had
entertained no such designs. He was, he said, simply a bishop of the
Church, a poor man with no political ambition or taste for intrigue. His
enemies retorted that he was not poor, but wealthy, and that he had
gained a dangerous ascendency over the turbulent people of Alexandria.
Constantine abruptly ended the dispute by banishing Athanasius to
Treves, and the Patriarch had no choice but to obey. He arrived at his
city of exile in 336, and was received with all honour by the Emperor’s
son Constantine, then installed in the Gallic capital as the Cæsar of
the West. This is tolerably certain proof that the Emperor did not
regard him as a very dangerous political opponent, but banished him
rather for the sake of religious peace. Constantine was weary of such
interminable disputations and such intractable disputants.

The exile of Athanasius was of course a signal victory for the Eusebians
and for Arius. With the Patriarch of Alexandria thus safely out of the
way, they might look forward with confidence to gaining the entire court
over to their side and still further consolidating their position in the
East. Arius returned in triumph to Alexandria, where he had not set foot
for many years. But his presence was the signal for renewed popular
disturbance. The Catholics remained faithful to their Bishop in
exile—St. Antony repeatedly wrote to Constantine, praying for
Athanasius’ recall—and Alexandria was in tumult. Constantine refused to
reconsider the sentence of banishment on Athanasius, but he checked the
violence of the Meletian schismatics by banishing John Arcaph from
Alexandria, and he hurriedly recalled Arius to Constantinople. The
heresiarch was summoned into the presence of the Emperor, who by this
time was once more uneasy in his mind. Constantine asked him point blank
whether he held the Faith of the Catholic Church. “Can I trust you?” he
said; “are you really of the true Faith?” Arius solemnly affirmed that
he was and recited his profession of belief. “Have you abjured the
errors you used to hold in Alexandria?” continued the Emperor; “will you
swear it before God?” Arius took the required oath, and the Emperor was
satisfied. “Go,” said he, “and if your Faith be not sound, may God
punish you for your perjury.”

This strange scene is described by Athanasius himself, who had been told
the details by an eyewitness, a priest called Macarius. According to
Socrates, Arius subscribed the declaration of the Faith in Constantine’s
presence, and the historian goes on to recount the foolish legend that
Arius wrote down his real opinions on paper, which he carried under his
arm, and so could truly swear that he “held” the sentiments he had
written. Arius then demanded to be admitted to communion with the Church
at Constantinople, as public testimony to his orthodoxy, and the
Patriarch Alexander was ordered to receive him. Alexander was a feeble
old man of ninety-eight but he did not lack moral courage. He told the
Emperor that his conscience would not allow him to offer the sacraments
to one whom, in spite of the recent declarations of the bishops at
Jerusalem, he still regarded as an arch-heretic. He was not troubled,
says Socrates,[124] at the thought of his own deposition; what he feared
was the subversion of the principles of the Faith, of which he regarded
himself as the constituted guardian. Locking himself up within his
church—the Church of St. Eirene—he lay prostrate before the high altar
and remained there in earnest supplication for many days and nights. And
the burden of his prayer was that if Arius’s opinions were right he
(Alexander) might not live to see him enter the church to receive the
sacrament, but that, if he himself held the true Faith, Arius the
impious might be punished for his impiety.

-----

Footnote 124:

  Socrates, i., 37.

-----

The aged Bishop was still calling upon Heaven to judge between Arius and
himself and declare the truth by some manifest sign, when the time
appointed for Arius to be received into communion was at hand. Arius was
on his way to St. Eirene. He had quitted the palace—says
Socrates—attended by a crowd of Eusebian partisans, and was passing
through the centre of the city, the observed of all observers.[125] He
was in high spirits—as well he might be, for it was the hour of his
supreme triumph. Then the blow fell. As he drew near the Porphyry Pillar
in the Forum of Constantine he was suddenly taken ill. There was a
public lavatory close by and he withdrew to it. When he did not return
his friends became alarmed. Entering the place, they found him dead of a
violent hæmorrhage, with bowels protruding and burst asunder, like the
traitor Judas in the Field of Blood. One can imagine the extraordinary
sensation which the news must have caused in Constantinople as it flew
from mouth to mouth. Not only the Patriarch Alexander, but all the
orthodox, attributed Arius’ sudden and awful end to the direct
interposition of Providence in answer to their prayers. In an instant,
we are told, the churches were crowded with excited worshippers and were
ablaze with lights as for some happy festival.

-----

Footnote 125:

  περίοπτος.

-----

On the superstitious mind of the Emperor so tragic a death naturally
made a deep impression. He was, says Athanasius, amazed. Doubtless he
believed that Arius had deceived him and that God had answered his
prayer to punish the perjurer. The Eusebians were “greatly confounded.”
Some hinted at poison, others at magic; others were content to look no
further than natural causes. The general verdict of antiquity, however,
was almost unanimous in ascribing the death of Arius to the anger of an
offended Deity. It is a view which still finds adherents. Cardinal
Newman, for example, declares:

  “Under the circumstances a thoughtful mind cannot but account this as
  one of those remarkable interpositions of power by which Divine
  Providence urges on the consciences of men in the natural course of
  things, what their reason from the first acknowledges, that He is not
  indifferent to human conduct. To say that these do not fall within the
  ordinary course of His governance is merely to say that they are
  judgments, which in the common meaning of the word stand for events
  extraordinary and unexpected.”

But that is a matter which need not be discussed here. What is more
important to our purpose is to point out that the death of Arius does
not seem to have affected the state of religious parties at
Constantinople. It did not shake the position of Eusebius of Nicomedia,
who continued to enjoy the confidence of the Emperor and to act as the
keeper of his conscience.

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER XV
                   CONSTANTINE’S DEATH AND CHARACTER

It seems incontestable that Constantine degenerated as he grew older.
Certainly his popularity tended to decrease. This, however, is the usual
penalty of length of reign, and in itself would not count for much. But
one cannot overlook the cumulative evidence which is to be found in the
authorities of the period. Eusebius himself admits[126] that
unscrupulous men often took advantage of the piety and generosity of the
Emperor, and many of the stories which he tells in Constantine’s praise
prepare us for the charges which were brought against him by the pagan
historians. For example, Eusebius declares that whenever the Emperor
heard a civil appeal, he used to make up out of his private purse the
amount in which the losing party was mulcted, on the extraordinary
principle that both the winner and the loser ought to leave their
sovereign’s presence equally satisfied. Such a theory would speedily
beggar the richest treasury. Aurelius Victor preserves a popular saying
which shews the general estimation in which Constantine’s memory was
held. Men used to say that for the first ten years of his reign he was a
model sovereign (_præstantissimus_), for the next twelve he was a
brigand (_latro_), and for the last ten a spendthrift heir, so called
because of his preposterous extravagance (_pupillus ob profusiones
immodicas_). He was nicknamed _Trachala_, the obvious reference of which
would be to his short, thick neck; but Aurelius Victor appears to
associate it in some way with the meaning of “scoffer” (_irrisor_).

-----

Footnote 126:

  _De Vita Const._, iv., 54.

-----

[Illustration:

  BASILICA OF CONSTANTINE AT ROME.
  FROM “ROME OF TO-DAY AND YESTERDAY,” BY JOHN DENNIE.
]

In greater detail Zosimus[127] accuses Constantine of wasting the public
money on useless buildings. As a pagan, he would naturally regard
expenditure upon the construction of sumptuous Christian churches as
money thrown away, but it is perfectly certain that the state of the
Imperial resources did not justify the Emperor in lavishing vast sums
upon churches in all parts of the Empire. If we consider what must have
been the capital cost of his churches in Rome, Constantinople,
Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Mamre, and Antioch,—to mention only a few
places,—and remember that he was constantly urging the bishops to keep
building and constantly sending instructions to his vicars to make
handsome subsidies out of the State funds, we cannot but conclude that
the grumbling of the pagan tax payer was thoroughly well justified.
Constantine, indeed, seems to have been as _entêté_ in the matter of
building churches as was in our day the mad King Ludwig of Bavaria in
the building of royal castles. Nor was this the only form in which the
passion for bricks and mortar—_il mal di pietra_—seized him. He built a
new basilica even in Rome—though he rarely set foot in the city. In
Constantinople he must have sunk millions of unproductive capital, which
were far more urgently required for the development of agriculture and
commerce. In one epigrammatic sentence Zosimus sums up his indictment by
saying that Constantine thought to gain distinction by lavish
outlay.[128] He also wasted the public revenue on unworthy and useless
favourites,[129] whom he taught, in the phrase of Ammianus Marcellinus,
to open their greedy jaws (_fauces aperuit_). Zosimus says bluntly that
in his opinion it was Constantine who sowed the seeds of the ruinous
waste and destruction that prevailed when he wrote his history, and he
roundly declares that the Emperor devoted his life to his own selfish
pleasures.[130]

-----

Footnote 127:

  ii., 32, 35.

Footnote 128:

  τὴν γὰρ ἀσωτίαν ἡγεῖτο φιλοτιμίαν (ii., 38).

Footnote 129:

  εἰς ἀναξίους καὶ ἀνωφελεῖς ἀνθρώπονς τοὺς φορους ἐκδαπανῶν.

Footnote 130:

  καὶ τρυφῇ τὸν βίον ἐκδοίς (ii., 32).

-----

There is another character sketch of Constantine which has survived for
us, drawn by an even more bitter enemy than the historian Zosimus. It is
to be found in that amusing and extraordinary _jeu d’esprit_ which bears
the name of _The Cæsars_, from the pen of the Emperor Julian. Julian
detested the very memory of Constantine the Great, whom he regarded as
the arch-apostate from the ancient religion, and, thus, when he
introduced him into the presence of the deities of Olympus, it was
really to pour ridicule and contempt upon his pretensions. Julian
describes him, at the first mention of his name, as a man who has seen
considerable fighting, but has become soft through self-indulgence and
luxury.[131] The deities of heaven are represented as sitting in
conclave, while the deified Emperors approach to join in their councils.
Julian runs over the list of the great Emperors, introducing them one by
one and making each sit by the side of the god whom he most resembles in
character. But when Constantine’s turn comes, it is found that he has no
such archetype. No god will own him as his protégé or pupil, and so,
after some hesitation, Constantine runs up to the Goddess of Luxury
(Τρύφη), who embraces him as her own darling, dresses him up in fine
clothes, and, when she has made him smart, hands him over to her sister,
the Goddess of Extravagance (Ἀσώτια). The irony was bitter, and the
shaft sped home.

-----

Footnote 131:

  ἄνδρα ουκ ἀπόλεμον μὲν, ἡδονῇ δε καὶ ἀπολαύσει χειροηθέστερον (c. 15).

-----

The ascetic Julian does not spare his august relative, whose title to
the epithet of “Great” he would have laughed to scorn. He declares that
Constantine’s victories over the barbarians were victories _pour rire_;
he represents him as a crazy being in love with the moon, like that
half-witted Emperor of the Claudian house, who used to stand at night in
the colonnades of his palace and beg the gracious Queen of the Sky to
come down to him as she had come down to Endymion. Julian puts into his
mouth a grotesque speech in which he makes Constantine claim to have
been a greater general than Alexander because he fought with Romans,
Germans, and Scythians and not with mere Asiatics; greater than Julius
Cæsar or than Augustus because he fought not with bad men but with good;
and greater even than Trajan, because it is a finer thing to win back
what you have lost than merely to acquire something new. The speech was
received with ridicule by the gods, and then Hermes pointedly asked
Constantine in the Socratic manner, “How would you define your ideal?”
(τὶ καλὸν ἐνόμισας;) “To have great riches,” was Constantine’s reply,
“and to be able to give away lavishly, and satisfy all one’s own desires
and those of one’s friends.” The answer is significant. Julian, like
Constantine’s other critics, keeps harping on the same string. It is the
luxury, extravagance, and self-indulgence of the Emperor that he singles
out as the most glaring defect of his character and his squandering of
the Imperial resources upon effeminate and un-Roman pomps, useless
buildings, and greedy and unworthy favourites. Silenus, the bibulous
buffoon of Olympus, a moral rebuke from whose lips would be received
with shouts of laughter, tells Constantine with mock gravity that he has
led a life fit only for a cook or a lady’s-maid (ὀψοποίος καὶ
κομμώτρια), and so the episode ends. We cannot doubt that there was
quite sufficient of truth in these accusations to make the sharp-witted
Greeks of the Empire, for whom Julian principally wrote, thoroughly
enjoy his biting sarcasms.

But we must be careful not to push too far any argument based upon this
lampoon of Julian or upon the obvious bias of Zosimus. They disclose to
us, undoubtedly, the least worthy side of Constantine’s character, viz.,
a tendency to effeminacy and luxury, and it is morally certain that no
one who had given way to his worst passions, as Constantine had done in
Rome in the year 326, could ever be quite the same man again. He had on
his conscience the assassination of his son and wife. These were but two
out of a terribly long list of victims, which included his
father-in-law, Maximian; his brother-in-law, Licinius, and Licinius’s
young son, Licinianus; another brother-in-law, the Cæsar Bassus; and
many more besides. Some fell for reasons of State—“it is only the
winner,” as Marcus Antonius had said three centuries before, “who sees
length of days”—but there was also the memory, even in the case of some
of these, of broken promises and ill-kept faith. Constantine’s
Christianity was not of the kind which permeates a man’s every action
and influences his entire life; or, if that be claimed for him, it must
at least be admitted that there were periods in his career when he
suffered most desperate lapses from grace.

On the whole perhaps the general statement of Eutropius, which we have
already quoted, that Constantine degenerated somewhat (_aliquantum
mutavit_) as he grew older, fairly meets the case. It is worth while,
indeed, to quote the reasoned estimate which this excellent epitomist
gives of the Emperor’s character. He says[132]:

  “At the opening of his reign Constantine was a man who challenged
  comparison with the best of Princes; at its close he merited
  comparison with those of average merit and demerit. Both mentally and
  physically his good points were beyond computation and conspicuous to
  all. He was passionately set on winning military glory; and in his
  campaigns good fortune attended him, though not more than his zealous
  industry deserved.... He was devoted to the arts of peace and to the
  humanities, and he sought to win from all men their sincere affection
  by his generosity and his tractability, never losing an opportunity of
  enriching his friends and adding to their dignity.”

-----

Footnote 132:

  Eutropius, x., 7.

-----

This estimate agrees in its main particulars with that of Aurelius
Victor, who, after speaking of his wonderful good luck in war (_mira
bellorum felicitate_) and his avidity for praise, eulogises his
exceptional versatility (_commodissimus rebus multis_), his zeal for
literature and the arts, and the patient ear which he was always ready
to lend to any provincial deputation or complaint.

We have spoken of a marked degeneracy observable in Constantine as his
life drew to a close. Perhaps the clearest proof of this is to be found
in a momentous step taken by him in 335, when he divided the sovereignty
of the world among his heirs. Such a partition meant the stultification
of his political career, for he thus destroyed at a blow the political
unity which he had so laboriously restored out of the wreck of the
system of Diocletian.

Eusebius gives us the truth in a single sentence when he says that
Constantine treated the Empire for the purposes of this division as
though he were apportioning his private patrimony among members of his
own family.[133] He was much more concerned to make handsome provision
for his sons and nephews than to secure the peace and well-being of his
subjects. Crispus had now been dead nine years, and the three sons of
Constantine and Fausta were still young, the eldest being only just
twenty-one. Eusebius tells us how carefully they had been trained. They
had been instructed in all martial exercises, and special professors had
been engaged to make them proficient in political affairs and a
knowledge of the laws. Their religious education had been personally
supervised by their father, who zealously sowed “the seeds of godly
reverence” and impressed upon them that “a knowledge of God, who is the
king of all things, and true piety were more deserving of honour than
riches or even than sovereignty itself.” Admirable precepts and Eusebius
declares again and again that this “Trinity of Princes”—so he calls them
in one place—were models of deportment, modesty, and piety.
Unfortunately, we know how emphatically their future careers belied
their early promise and the eulogies of the Bishop of Cæsarea. We do not
doubt his statement that Constantine spared no effort to educate them
aright, but it was most unfortunate that the remarkable success of their
father’s political career bore testimony rather to the efficacy of
ambition without scruple than of “godly reverence and true piety.”

-----

Footnote 133:

  οἷα τινα πατρώαν οὐσίαν τοὶς αὐτõυ κληροδοτῶν φιλτάτοις.

-----

In this new partition of the Empire the Cæsarship of the West, including
Gaul, Britain, and Spain, fell to Constantine, the eldest of the three
princes. To the second, Constantius, were assigned the rich provinces of
the East, including the seaboard provinces of Asia Minor, together with
Syria and Egypt. Constans, the youngest, received as his share Italy,
Illyria, and Africa. But there was still a goodly heritage left over,
sufficient to make a handsome dowry for a favourite daughter. This was
Constantina, eldest of the three daughters of Constantine and Fausta,
and she had been married to her half-cousin, Annibalianus, whose father
had been the second son of Constantius Chlorus and Theodora. To support
worthily the dignity of his new position as son-in-law of Constantine,
the new title of _Nobilissimus_ was created in his honour, and a kingdom
was made for him out of the provinces of Pontus, Cappadocia, and Lesser
Armenia. Gibbon expresses surprise that Annibalianus, “of the whole
series of Roman Princes in any age of the Empire,” should have been the
only one to bear the name of _Rex_, and says that he can scarcely admit
its accuracy even on the joint authority of Imperial medals and
contemporary writers. The explanation is surely to be found in the fact
that Pontus, Cappadocia, and Lesser Armenia had for centuries been
accustomed to be ruled by a king and that, in creating a new kingdom,
Constantine simply retained the title which would be most familiar to
the subjects over whom Annibalianus was to rule. Annibalianus was
himself a second son: his elder brother, Dalmatius, was raised to the
full title of Cæsar and given command over the important provinces of
Thrace and Macedonia, with Greece thrown in as a make-weight. The
position was a very important one, for it fell to the Cæsar of Thrace to
guard the frontier chiefly threatened by the Goths, and we may suppose,
therefore, with some probability that Dalmatius—who had been consul in
333—had given proof of military talent.

But to what extent, we may ask, was this a real partition? In what
sense were the Cæsars independent of Constantine himself? Eusebius
expressly tells us[134] that each was provided with a complete
establishment—βασιλικὴ παρασκευὴ,—with a court, that is to say, which
was in every respect a miniature copy of the court at Constantinople.
Each had his own legions, bodyguards, and auxiliaries, with their due
complement of officers chosen, we are told, by the Emperor for their
knowledge of war and for their loyalty to their chiefs. It is hardly
to be supposed that Constantine contemplated retirement: had he done
so, he would have retired at the Tricennalia which he celebrated in
the following year. In all probability, he did not intend that his
supreme power should be one whit abated, though he was content to
delegate his administrative authority to others acting under his
strict supervision. His Cæsars, in short, were really viceroys, though
it is difficult to understand how such an arrangement can have worked
harmoniously without some modification of the powers of the four
Prætorian præfects. But the division, as we have said, was not made in
the interests of the Empire but in the interests of the Princes of the
Blood, and it was one which could not possibly endure. As soon as
Constantine died chaos and civil war were bound to ensue, and, as a
matter of fact, did ensue. For there is no evidence that the Emperor
made any arrangement as to who should succeed him on the throne.
Constantinople itself lay in the territory assigned to Dalmatius; yet
it was entirely unreasonable to suppose that the three sons of
Constantine would acquiesce in leaving the capital to the quiet
possession of their cousin. The division of the Empire, therefore, in
335 carried with it the early ripening seeds of civil war, bloodshed,
and anarchy. If the system of Diocletian had proved unworkable,
because it took no account of the natural desire of a son to succeed
his father, the system of Constantine was even worse. It was
absolutely certain that of the five heirs the three sons would combine
against the two cousins, whom they would regard as interlopers, and
that then the three brothers would quarrel among themselves, until
only one was left.

-----

Footnote 134:

  _De Vita Const._, iv., 51.

-----

Constantine’s reign was now hastening to its end. In 336 he celebrated
his Tricennalia, and his courtiers would not fail to remind him that he
alone, of all the successors of the great Augustus, had borne such
length of days in his left hand and such glory in his right. The
principal event of the festival seems to have been the dedication at
Jerusalem of the sumptuous Church of the Anastasis on the site of the
Holy Sepulchre. As we have seen in another chapter, the year was one of
acute religious contention, rendered specially memorable by the
awe-inspiring death of Arius, and the Emperor’s last months of life must
have been embittered by the thought that, despite all his efforts,
religious unity within the Church seemed as far as ever from
realisation.

Eusebius tells us[135] that Constantine sought to find a remedy in the
hot baths of Constantinople for the disorder from which he was
suffering, and then, obtaining no relief, crossed the straits to
Drepanum, or Helenopolis, as it was now called in honour of the
Emperor’s mother. There his malady grew worse and special prayers were
offered for his recovery in the Church of Lucian the Martyr.

-----

Footnote 135:

  _De Vita Const._, iv., 61.

-----

But Constantine had a presentiment that the end was near, and he
determined, therefore, that the time had come for him formally to become
a member of the Christian Church and so obtain purification for the sins
which he had committed in life. Falling upon his knees on the church
floor, he confessed his sins, received the laying-on of hands, and so
became a catechumen. Then, travelling down to the palace which stood on
the outskirts of Nicomedia, the now dying Emperor summoned to his side a
number of bishops and made confession of his faith. He told them that
the moment for which he had thirsted and prayed had come at last, the
moment when he might receive “the seal which confers immortality.” He
had hoped, he said, to be baptised in Jordan: God had willed otherwise
and he bowed to His will. But he assured them that his resolve was not
due to any passing whim. He had fully made up his mind, that even if
recovery were vouchsafed him, he would set before himself such rules and
conduct of life[136] as would be becoming to God.

-----

Footnote 136:

  θεσμὸυς ἤδη βίου θεῷ πρέποντας ἐμαυτῷ διατετάξομαι.

-----

Eusebius of Nicomedia then performed the rite of baptism. Constantine,
clad in garments of shining white, lay upon a white bed, and, down to
the hour of his death, refused to touch the purple robes he had worn in
life. “Now,” he exclaimed, with all the fervour of a neophyte, “now I
know in very truth that I am blessed; now I have confidence that I am a
partaker of divine light.” When his captains came to take leave of him
and wept at the thought of losing their chief, he told them that he had
the assurance of having been found worthy of eternal life, and that his
only anxiety was to hasten his journey to God. He wished to die, and the
wish was soon granted. Constantine drew his last breath on May 22d, 337.

They bore the body, enclosed in a golden coffin covered by a purple
pall, from Nicomedia to Constantinople and placed it with great pomp in
the throne room of the palace. There the dead Emperor lay in state,
guarded night and day by the chief officers of the army and the highest
officials of the court. Even in death, says Eusebius, he still was king,
and all the elaborate bowings and genuflexions with which men had
entered his presence in his lifetime were still observed. Constantine’s
illness had declared itself very suddenly, and had run its course so
quickly that not one of his sons was at hand to take up the reins of
administration. It looks too as though the Emperor had made no
preparations with a view to his demise, but had left his three sons and
his two nephews to determine among themselves who should be supreme. His
second son, Constantius, was the first to arrive at Constantinople, and
it was he who arranged the obsequies of his father. We are told that the
Roman Senate earnestly desired the body of the Emperor to be laid to
rest in the old capital and sent deputations begging that this last
honour should not be denied them. But it had been Constantine’s express
wish to be buried in the Church of the Apostles, at Constantinople,
where he had prepared a splendid sarcophagus, and there can have been no
hesitation as to the choice of a resting-place. The body was borne with
an imposing military pageant to the Church. Constantius was the chief
mourner, but he and his soldiers quitted the sanctuary before a word of
the burial-service was spoken or a note of music sounded. He was not a
baptised Christian and, therefore, could not be present as the last
rites were performed. The great Emperor was buried by the bishops,
priests, and Christian populace, whose zealous champion he had been and
to whose undying gratitude he had established an overwhelming title.
Coins were struck bearing on one side the figure of the Emperor with his
head closely veiled, and, on the other, representing Constantine seated
in a four-horse chariot, and being drawn up to heaven by a celestial
hand stretched out to him from the clouds. It was a device which could
offend neither Christian nor pagan. To the former it would recall the
triumphant ascent of Elijah; the latter would regard it as the token of
a natural apotheosis. The hand might equally well be the hand of God or
of Jupiter.

[Illustration:

  THE SUPPOSED SARCOPHAGI OF CONSTANTINE THE GREAT AND THEODOSIUS
  THE GREAT.
  FROM GROSVENOR’S “CONSTANTINOPLE.”]
]

Such is the story of the Emperor’s baptism, death, and burial as
recounted by Eusebius. There is, however, one important detail to be
added and one important question to be asked. Constantine was baptised
by an Arian bishop. To the Athanasian party and to the ecclesiastical
historians of succeeding ages this was a lamentable circumstance which
greatly exercised and troubled their minds. It sorely grieved them to
think that their patron Constantine should have been admitted into the
communion of the faithful by the dangerous heretic who had been the
bitterest enemy of their idol, Athanasius. But with a forbearance to
which they were usually strangers, they agreed to pass over the episode
in comparative silence and remember not the shortcomings but the virtues
of the first Christian Emperor.

It still remains to be asked why Constantine did not formally enter the
Church until he was on his death-bed. There had been no lukewarmness
about his Christianity. He was not one to be afflicted with doubts.
There had never been any danger of his reverting to paganism. In the
last few years, indeed, he had been distracted by the clamour of Arians
and Athanasians, and his was a mind upon which a clever and acute
ecclesiastic, who enjoyed his confidence, could play at will. When
Hosius of Cordova stood by his side he was the champion of the Catholic
party; when Hosius fell from favour and Eusebius of Nicomedia took his
place Constantine strongly inclined to the Arian side. But in neither
case was there any doubt of his Christianity. Why then did he not become
a member of the Church? Was it because the rite of baptism conferred
immediate forgiveness of sin and therefore a death-bed baptism
infallibly opened the gate of Heaven? By putting off entrance into the
Church until the hour had come after which it was hardly possible to
commit sin, did Constantine count upon making sure of eternal happiness?
Such is the motive assigned by some historians. It certainly is not a
lofty one. Yet the idea may very well have presented itself to
Constantine’s mind and the impression left by Eusebius’s narrative is
that Constantine only determined to receive the rite because he felt his
end to be near and dared not put it off any longer. On the other hand,
Constantine’s statement that his ambition had been to be baptised in
Jordan is rather against this theory. Possibly, too, he was to some
degree influenced by the wish not to alienate entirely the support of
his pagan subjects, especially the more fanatical of them, who would
bitterly resent their Chief Pontiff becoming a baptised member of the
Christian Church. No one can say, but we shall be the better able to
form an opinion if we look a little more closely at the religious life
and policy of Constantine.

Eusebius represents the daily life of the Emperor on its religious side
to have been almost that of a monk or of a saint. Every day, we are
told, he used to retire for private meditation and prayer. He delighted
in delivering sermons and addresses to his courtiers, Bible in hand. He
would begin by exposing the errors of polytheism and by proving the
superstition of the Gentiles to be a mere fraud and cloak for impiety,
and would then expound his theory of the sole sovereignty of God, the
workings of Providence, and the sureness of the Judgment, invariably
concluding with his favourite moral that God had given to him the
sovereignty of the whole world. Such a discourse could not possibly be
short, but Constantine liked his religious exercises long. He once
insisted on standing throughout the reading of an elaborate disquisition
by Eusebius himself, who evidently tired of the exertion and begged that
the Emperor would not fatigue himself further. But Constantine was
resolved to hear it out, and the courtier Bishop, while profoundly
flattered at the compliment, ruefully admitted that the thesis was very
long. Probably the courtiers found it interminable. But it was their
duty to listen, applaud, and appear duly impressed when, for example,
Constantine traced on the ground the dimensions of a coffin, and
solemnly warned them against covetousness by the reminder that six feet
of earth was the utmost they could hope to enjoy after death, and they
might not even get so much as that if burial were refused them or they
were burnt or lost at sea. No one ever accused Constantine of
covetousness; his failing was reckless extravagance, and we fear he is
to be numbered among those who

                “Compound for sins they are inclined to
                By damning those they have no mind to.”

Constantine ordered all the bishops throughout the Empire to offer up
daily prayers for him; he had coins struck at the Imperial mints which
depicted him with eyes uplifted to heaven, and he had pictures of
himself—probably in mosaic—set over the gates of his palaces, in which
he was seen standing erect with hands in the attitude of prayer. For our
part we like better the chapters in which Eusebius describes the
Emperor’s open-handed generosity to the poor and needy and to the orphan
and the widow, extols the kind-heartedness which was carried to such a
length as to raise the question whether such clemency was not excessive,
and claims that his most distinctive and characteristic virtue was the
love of his fellow-men, his φιλανθρώπια, a virtue which the typical
Roman rarely developed to his full capacity.

Constantine’s whole career testified to the zeal with which he had
embraced Christianity. We have seen the enthusiasm with which he set to
work to build churches throughout the Empire. In Rome there are ascribed
to him the Church of Saint Agnes, the Church of St. John Lateran, and
another which stood on part of the site of the present St. Peter’s. In
Constantinople he built the Churches of the Apostles, St. Eirene, and
St. Sophia. In Jerusalem he built the Church of the Anastasis as the
crowning memorial of his thirty years of reign, and in Antioch,
Nicomedia, and a score of other cities his purse was constantly at the
service of the Faith. The building of churches was a passion with him,
and he also took care that they were provided with the Scriptures.
Eusebius[137] gives the text of a letter written to him by the Emperor
ordering fifty copies of the Scriptures to be executed without delay.
Constantine published an edict commanding that the Lord’s day should be
scrupulously observed and honoured, and that every facility should be
given to Christian soldiers to enable them to attend the services. Even
his pagan soldiers were to keep that day holy by offering up a prayer to
the “King of Heaven,” in which they addressed him as the “Giver of
Victory, their Preserver, Guardian, and Helper.”

  “Thee alone we know to be God; Thee alone we recognise as King; Thee
  we invoke as Helper; from Thee we have gained our victories; through
  Thee we are superior to our enemies. To Thee we give thanks for the
  benefits we now enjoy; from Thee we look for our benefits to come. All
  of us are Thy suppliants: and we pray that Thou wilt guard our King
  Constantine and his pious sons long, long to reign over us in safety
  and victory.”

-----

Footnote 137:

  _De Vita Const._, iv., 36.

-----

No pagan soldier could be offended at being required to offer this
prayer to the King of Heaven. If he were sincere in his faith he would
hope that it might reach the throne of Jupiter; Constantine evidently
expected that, as it was addressed to the King of Heaven, it would be
intercepted in midcourse and wafted to the throne of God. He was at any
rate determined that no soldier of his, whether pagan or Christian,
should wear on his shield any other sign than that of the Cross—“the
salutary trophy.”

But what was Constantine’s policy towards the old religion? Let us look
first at the explicit statements of Eusebius. He says in one place[138]
that “the doors of idolatry were shut throughout the whole Roman Empire
for both laity and military alike, and every form of sacrifice was
forbidden.” In another passage[139] he says that edicts were issued
“forbidding sacrifice to idols, the mischievous practice of divination,
the putting up of wooden images, the observance of secret rites, and the
pollution of cities by the sanguinary combats of gladiators.” In a third
passage[140] he speaks of Constantine’s having “utterly destroyed
polytheism in all its variety of foolishness.” Eusebius also tells us
that Constantine was careful to choose, whenever possible, Christian
governors for the provinces, while he forbade those with Hellenistic,
_i. e._, pagan, sympathies to offer sacrifice. He also ordered that the
synodal decrees of bishops should not be interfered with by the
provincial authorities, for, adds Eusebius, he considered a priest of
God to be more entitled to honour than a judge. The same authority
expressly states[141] that Constantinople was kept perfectly free from
idolatry in every shape and form, and was never polluted with the blood
or smoke of sacrifice, and the general impression which he leaves upon
the reader’s mind is that paganism was proscribed and the practice of
the old religion declared to be a crime.

-----

Footnote 138:

  _De Vita Const._, iv., 23.

Footnote 139:

  _Ibid._, c. 25.

Footnote 140:

  μόνου τε πᾶδαν πολίθεον πλάνην καθελόντος (_ibid._, c. 75).

Footnote 141:

  _Ibid._, c. 27.

-----

It is evident, however, that this was not the case. Eusebius, as usual,
supplies the corrective to his own exaggerations. He quotes, for
example, in full the text of an edict which Constantine addressed to the
governors of the East, wherein it is unequivocally laid down that
complete religious freedom is to be the standing rule throughout the
Empire. He beseeches all his subjects to become Christians, but he will
not compel them. “Let no one interfere with his neighbour. Let each man
do what his soul desires.”[142] This edict was issued after the
overthrow of Licinius and is remarkable chiefly for the fervent
profession of Christianity which the Emperor makes in it. “I am most
firmly convinced,” he says, “that I owe to the most High God my whole
soul, my every breath, my most secret and inmost thoughts.” And then he
continues: “Therefore, I have dedicated my soul to Thee, in pure blend
of love and fear.[143] For I truly adore Thy name, while I reverence Thy
power which Thou hast manifested by many proofs and made my faith the
surer.”

-----

Footnote 142:

  μηδεὶς τὸν ἕτερον παρενοχλεὶτω: ἕκαστος ὅπερ ἠ ψυχὴ βούλεται τοῦτο καὶ
  πραττέτω (_De Vita Const._, ii., 56).

Footnote 143:

  διὰ ταῦτά τοι ἀνέθηκα σοί τὴν ἐμαυτοῦ ψύχην ἔρωτι καὶ φόβῳ καθαρῶς
  ἀνακραθεῖσαν (_ibid._, c. 55).

-----

But did Constantine maintain this attitude of strict neutrality, only
tempered by ardent prayer that his pagan subjects might be brought to a
knowledge of the truth? In its entirety he certainly did not, and it was
impossible that so zealous a convert should. When the smiles of Imperial
favour were withdrawn from the old religion it was inevitable that the
Imperial arm which protected it should grow slack in its defence. Yet,
throughout his reign Constantine never forgot that the majority of his
subjects were still pagan, despite the hosts of conversions which
followed his own, and he took care not to press too hardly upon them and
not to goad the more fanatical upholders of the old régime to the
recklessness of despair. We have seen how the Emperor refused to witness
the procession of the Knights in Rome at the time of his Vicennalia. He
also forbade his statue or image to be placed in a pagan temple. But he,
nevertheless, retained through life the office of _Pontifex Maximus_,
and as such continued to be supreme head of the pagan religion. Nor was
it until the time of Gratian fifty years afterwards that this title—no
doubt in deference to the repeated representations of the bishops—was
dropped by the Christian Emperors. Some historians have expressed
surprise that so enthusiastic a convert to Christianity should have been
willing to remain Chief Pontiff; a few have even been genuinely
concerned to explain and excuse his conduct. But Constantine was
statesman as well as convert. If he had resigned the Chief Pontificate
that office might conceivably have passed into dangerous hands. By
holding it as an absolute sinecure, by never performing its ceremonial
duties or wearing its distinctive robes, Constantine did far more to
destroy its influence than if he had resigned it. Imperial titles,
moreover, sometimes signify very little. Every one knows the gibe of
Voltaire at the Holy Roman Empire which was neither holy, nor Roman, nor
an Empire. For centuries after the loss of Calais the lilies of France
were quartered on the Royal arms of Great Britain, and the coins of our
Protestant monarch still bear the F. D. bestowed by the Pope upon the
eighth Henry. The King of Portugal is still Lord of All the Indies. It
is not titles that count but actions. Whether or not Constantine’s
ecclesiastical friends were troubled by his retaining the title, we may
be sure the question never troubled the Emperor himself, as the title of
“Supreme Head of the English Church” is said to have troubled the
scrupulous conscience of James II. after he became a convert to Rome.
But in the latter case the practical advantages of retention outweighed
the shock to consistency in the eyes of those whom James consulted.

Constantine helped forward the conversion of the Empire with true
statesmanlike caution, desirous above all things to avoid political
disturbance. He abolished outright, we are told, certain of the more
offensive and degraded pagan rites, to which it was possible to take
grave exception on the score of decency and morality. For example, some
Phœnician temples at Heliopolis and Aphaca, where the worship of Venus
was attended with shameless prostitution, were ordered to be pulled
down. The same fate befell a temple of Æsculapius at Ægææ, and a college
of effeminate priests in Egypt, associated with the worship of the Nile,
was disbanded and its members, according to Eusebius, were all put to
death. But these are the only specific examples of repression instanced
by Eusebius,[144] and they assuredly do not suggest any general
proscription of paganism. Eusebius is notoriously untrustworthy. He
distinctly says that Constantine determined to purify his new capital of
all idolatry, so that there should not be found within its walls either
statue or altar of any false god. Yet we know that the philosopher
Sopater was present at the ceremony of dedication and that he enjoyed
for a time the high favour of the Emperor, though he was subsequently
put to death on the accusation of the præfect Ablavius, who charged him
with delaying the arrival of the Egyptian corn ships by his magical
arts. We know too that there were temples of Cybele and Fortuna in the
city, and Zosimus expressly declares that the Emperor constructed a
temple and precincts for the Dioscuri, Castor and Pollux. At Rome the
temple of Concord was rebuilt towards the close of his reign, and
inscriptions shew that the consuls of the year still dedicated without
hindrance altars to their favourite deities. The famous altar of
Victory, around which a furious controversy was to rage in the reign of
Valentinian, at the close of the fourth century, still stood in the
Roman Curia, and in the two great centres of Eastern Christianity,
Antioch and Alexandria, the worship of Apollo and Serapis continued
without intermission in their world-renowned temples.

-----

Footnote 144:

  _De Vita Const._, iii., 48, iv., 25.

-----

[Illustration:

  COPPER DENARIUS OF CONSTANTINE THE GREAT.
  SHOWING THE LABARUM.
]

[Illustration:

  DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF CONSTANTIUS II.
  WITH THE LABARUM.
]

[Illustration: DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF DIOCLETIAN.]

[Illustration: SOLIDUS OF MAXIMIAN.]

No doubt in districts where the Christians were in a marked majority and
paganism found only lukewarm adherents, there was occasional violence
shewn to the old temples and statues, especially if the governor
happened to be a Christian. Ornaments might be stolen, treasures
ransacked, and probably few questions were asked. Christianity had been
persecuted so long and so savagely that when the day of revenge came,
the temptation was too strong for human frailty to resist, and as long
as there was no serious civil disturbance the authorities probably made
light of the occurrence. Paganism was a dying creed; where it had to
struggle hard to keep its head above water, the end was not long
delayed. The case would be different where the temples were possessed of
great wealth and where there were powerful priestly corporations to
defend their vested interests. There can be no greater mistake than to
suppose that Constantine declared war on the old religion. He did
nothing of the kind. When he showered favours on the Christian clergy,
what he did in effect was merely to raise them to the same status as
that already enjoyed by the pagan priesthood. He did not take away the
privileges of the colleges: and inscriptions have been found which tend
to shew that, he allowed new colleges to be founded which bore his name.
In short, to the old State-established and State-endowed religion he
added another, that of Christianity, reserving his special favour for
the new but not actively repressing the ancient. He had hoped to convert
the world by his own example; but, though he failed in this, he never
contemplated a resort to violence. His religious policy, throughout his
reign, may fairly be described as one of toleration. That is what
Symmachus meant when he said, half a century later, that Constantine had
belonged to both religions.

There was one exception to this rule. Constantine came down with a heavy
hand on secret divination and the practice of magic and the black arts.
But other Emperors before him had done the same, Emperors whose loyalty
to the Roman religion had never been questioned—for these mysterious
rites formed no part of the established worship. They might be employed
to the harm of the State; they might portend danger to the Emperor’s
life and throne. It was not for private individuals to experiment with
and let loose the powers of darkness, for, as a rule, beneficent deities
had no part or lot in these dark mysteries. As a Christian, Constantine
would have a double satisfaction in issuing edicts against the
wonder-working charlatans who abounded in the great cities; but the
point is that in attacking them he was not technically attacking the old
State religion. The public and official haruspices were not interfered
with; if any devout pagan still desired to consult an oracle, no
obstacle was placed in his way; and, as a tribute to the universal
superstition of the age from which he himself was not free, even private
divination was permitted when the object was a good one, such as the
restoration of a sick person to health or the protection of crops
against hail. But it is evident that Constantine and his bishops were
far more apprehensive of evil from the unchaining of the Devil than
expectant of good from the favour of the ministers of grace. They were
terrified of the one: they indulged but a pious hope of the other. Nor
was the Emperor successful in stamping out the private thaumaturgist.
Human nature was too strong for him. _Sileat perpetuo divinandi
curiositas_, ordered one of his successors in 358. But the curiosity to
divine the future continued to defy both civil and ecclesiastical law.

A much bolder act, however, than the closing of a few temples on the
score of public decency or the forbidding of private divination was the
edict of 325, in which Constantine ordered the abolition of the
gladiatorial shows. “Such blood-stained spectacles,” he said, “in the
midst of civil peace and domestic quiet are repugnant to our taste.” He
ordained, therefore, that in future all criminals who were usually
condemned to be gladiators should be sent to work in the mines, that
they might expiate their offences without shedding of blood. But it was
one thing to issue an edict and another to enforce it. Whether
Constantine insisted on the observance of this particular edict, we
cannot say, but his successors certainly did not, for the gladiatorial
spectacles at Rome were in full swing in the days of Symmachus, who
ransacked the world for good swordsmen and strange animals. The
“_cruenta spectacula_” as Constantine called them, were not finally
abolished until the reign of Honorius.

To sum up. The only reasonable view to take of the religious character
of Constantine is that he was a sincere and convinced Christian. This is
borne out alike by his passionate professions of faith and by the clear
testimony of his actions. There are, it is true, many historians who
hold that he was really indifferent to religion, and others who credit
him with an easy capacity for finding truth in all religions alike.
Professor Bury, for example, says that “the evidence seems to shew that
his religion was a syncretistic monotheism; that he was content to see
the deity in the Sun, in Mithras, or in the God of the Hebrews.” Such a
description would suit the character of Constantius Chlorus perfectly,
and it may very well have suited Constantine himself before the
overthrow of Maxentius. There is a passage in the Ninth Panegyric which
seems to have been uttered by one holding these views, and it is worth
quotation, for it is an invocation to the supreme deity to bless the
Emperor Constantine. It runs as follows:

  Wherefore we pray and beseech thee to keep our Prince safe for all
  eternity, thee, the supreme creator of all things, whose names are as
  manifold as it has been thy will that nations should have tongues. We
  cannot tell by what title it is thy pleasure that we should address
  thee, whether thou art a divine force and mind permeating the whole
  world and mingled with all the elements, and moving of thine own
  motive power without impulse from without, or whether thou art some
  Power above all Heaven who lookest down upon this thy handiwork from
  some loftier arch of Nature.

Such a deity may have satisfied the philosophers, but it certainly was
not the deity whom Constantine worshipped throughout his reign. Had he
been indifferent to religion, or indifferent to Christianity, had he
even been anxious only to hold the balance between the rival creeds, he
would never have surrounded himself by episcopal advisers; never have
set his hand to such edicts as those we have quoted; never have
abolished the use of the cross for the execution of criminals or have
forbidden Jews to own Christian slaves; never have called the whole
world time and again to witness his zeal for Christ; never have lavished
the resources of the Empire upon the building of sumptuous churches;
never have listened with such extraordinary forbearance to the
wranglings of the Donatists and the subtleties of Arians and
Athanasians; never have summoned or presided at the Council of Nicæa;
and certainly never have made the welfare of non-Roman Christians the
subject of entreaty with the King of Persia. Constantine was prone to
superstition. He was grossly material in his religious views, and his
own worldly success remained still in his eyes the crowning proof of the
Christian verities. But the sincerity of his convictions is none the
less apparent, and even the atrocious crimes with which he sullied his
fair fame cannot rob him of the name of Christian. It was a name, says
St. Augustine,[145] in which he manifestly delighted to boast, mindful
of the hope which he reposed in Christ (_Plane Christiano nomine
gloriosus, memor spei quam gerebat in Christo_).

-----

Footnote 145:

  _Contra Lit. Petil._, ii., 205.

-----


[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER XVI
                      THE EMPIRE AND CHRISTIANITY


The reorganisation of the Empire, begun by Diocletian, had been
continued along the same lines by Constantine the Great. There were
still further developments under their successors, but these two were
the real founders of the Imperial system which was to subsist in the
eastern half of the Empire for more than eleven hundred years. In other
words, Diocletian and Constantine gave the Empire, if not a new lease of
life, at least a new impetus and a new start, and we may here present a
brief sketch of the reforms which they introduced into practically every
sphere of governmental activity.

We have already seen how profoundly changed was the position of the
Emperor himself. He was no longer essentially a Roman Imperator, a
supreme War-Lord, a soldier Chief of State. He had become a King in a
palace, secluded from the gaze of the vulgar, surrounded with all the
attributes and ornaments of an eastern monarch, and robed in gorgeous
vestments stiff with gold and jewels. Men were taught to speak and think
of him as superhuman and sacrosanct, to approach him with genuflexion
and adoration, to regard every office, however menial, attached to his
person, as sacred. In speaking of the Emperor language was strained to
the pitch of the ridiculous; flattery became so grotesque that it must
have ceased to flatter. When Nazarius, for example, speaks of the
Emperor’s heart as “the stupendous shrine of mighty virtues” (_ingentium
virtutum stupenda penetralia_), and such language as this became the
recognised mode of addressing the reigning Sovereign, we see how far we
have travelled not only from Republican simplicity, but even from the
times of Domitian. The Emperor, in brief, was absolute monarch, autocrat
of the entire Roman world, and his will and nod were law.

He stood at the head of a hierarchy of court and administrative
officials, most minutely organised from the highest to the lowest. For
purposes of Imperial administration, those next to the throne were the
four Prætorian præfects, each one supreme, under the Emperor, in his
quarter of the world. The Empire had been divided by Diocletian into
twelve dioceses and these again into ninety-six provinces; Constantine
accepted this division but apportioned the twelve dioceses into four
præfectures, those of the Orient, Illyria, Italy, and Gaul. The four
Prætorian præfects stood in relation to the Emperor—so Eusebius tells
us—as God the Son stood in relation to God the Father. They wore—though
not perhaps in the days of Constantine—robes of purple reaching to the
knee; they rode in lofty chariots, and among the insignia of their
office were a colossal silver inkstand and gold pen-cases of a hundred
pounds in weight. Their functions were practically unlimited, save for
the all-important exception that they exercised no military command.
They had an exchequer of their own, through which passed all the
Imperial taxes from their provinces; they had absolute control over the
vicars of the dioceses beneath them, whom, if they did not actually
appoint they at least recommended for appointment to the Emperor. In
their own præfectures they formed the final court of appeal, and
Constantine expressly enacted that there should be no appeal from them
to the throne. They even had a limited power of issuing edicts. Thus in
all administrative, financial, and judicial matters the four Prætorian
præfects were supreme, occupying a position very similar to that of the
Viceroys of the great provinces of China, save that they had no control
over the troops within their territories.

Below these four præfects came the vicars of the twelve dioceses of the
Oriens, Pontica, Asiana, Thracia, Mœsia, Pannonia, Britanniæ, Galliæ,
Viennenses, Italia, Hispaniæ, and Africa. Egypt continued to hold an
unique position; its governor was almost independent of the præfect of
the Orient, and was always a direct nominee of the Emperor. Then, below
the twelve vicars came the governors of the provinces, the number of
which constantly tended to increase, but by further subdivision rather
than by conquest of new territory. Various names were given to these
governors; they were _rectores_ and _correctores_ in some provinces,
_præsides_ in many more, _consulares_ in a few of the more important
ones, such as Africa and Italia. Each had his own entourage of minor
officials, and the hierarchical principle was observed as rigidly on the
lowest rungs of the ladder as on the topmost. Autocrats are obliged to
rule through a bureaucracy, a broad-based pyramid of officialdom which
usually weighs heavily upon the unfortunate taxpayer who has to support
the entire structure.

[Illustration: AUREUS OF CARAUSIUS.]

[Illustration: AUREUS OF ALLECTUS.]

[Illustration: SOLIDUS OF HELENA.]

[Illustration: SOLIDUS OF GALERIUS.]

[Illustration: SOLIDUS OF SEVERUS II.]

A similar hierarchy of officials prevailed in the palace and the court,
from the grand chamberlain down through a host of Imperial secretaries
to the head scullion. The tendency of each was to magnify his office
into a department, and to be the master of a set of underlings. And it
was the policy of Constantine, as it had been the policy of Augustus, to
invent new offices in order to increase the number of officials who
looked to the Emperor as their benefactor.[146]

-----

Footnote 146:

  εἰς γὰρ τὸ πλείονας τιμᾶν διαφόρους ἐπενόει βασιλεὺς αξιάς (_De Vita
  Const._, iv., 1).

-----

In the conduct of State affairs the Emperor was assisted by an Imperial
council, known as the _consistorium principis_. It included the four
Prætorian præfects of whom we have spoken; the quæstor of the palace, a
kind of general secretary of state; the master of the offices (_magister
officiorum_), one of whose principal duties was to act as minister of
police; the grand chamberlain (_præpositus sacri cubiculi_); two
ministers of finance, and two ministers for war. One of the finance
ministers was dignified with the title of count of the sacred largesses
(_comes sacrarum largitionum_); the other was count of the private purse
(_comes rerum privatarum_). The distinction was similar to the old one
between the _ærarium_ and the _fiscus_, between, that is to say, the
State treasury and the Emperor’s privy purse. One of the two ministers
for war had supreme charge of the infantry of the Empire; the other was
responsible for the cavalry. Both also exercised judicial functions and
sat as a court of appeal in all military cases wherein the State was
interested, either as plaintiff or defendant.

There were still consuls in Rome, who continued to give their names to
the year. All their political power had vanished, but their dignity
remained unimpaired, though it was now derived not from the intrinsic
importance of their office so much as from its extrinsic ornaments. To
be consul had become the ambition not of the boldest but of the vainest.
(_In consulatu honos sine labore suscipitur._) The prætorship had
similarly fallen, but it still entailed upon the holder the expensive
and sometimes ruinous privilege of providing shows for the amusement of
the Roman populace. The number of prætors had fallen to two in
Constantine’s day: he raised it to eight, in accordance with his general
regardlessness of expense, so long as there was outward magnificence. It
is doubtful whether, during the reign of Constantine, there were consuls
and prætors in Constantinople. Certainly there was no urban præfect
appointed in that city until twenty years after his death, and it seems
probable that the Emperor did not set up in his new capital quite such a
pedantically perfect imitation of the official machinery of Rome as has
sometimes been supposed. His successors, however, were not long in
completing what he had begun.

We pass to the senate and the senatorial order, with their various
degrees of dignity, which Constantine and those who came after him
delighted to elaborate. Every member of the senate was naturally a
member of the senatorial order, but it by no means followed that every
member of the order had a seat in the senate. The new senate of
Constantinople, like its prototype at Rome, had little or no political
power. It merely registered the decrees of the Emperor, and its function
seems to have been one principally of dignity and ceremony. Membership
of the senatorial order was a social distinction that might be held by a
man living in any part of the Empire and was gained by virtue of having
held office. The order was an aristocracy of officials and ex-officials,
distinguished by resplendent titles, involving additional burdens in the
way of taxation—the price of added dignity. A few of these titles are
worth brief consideration. To the Emperor there were reserved the
grandiloquent names of Your Majesty, Your Eternity, Your Divinity.
Members of the reigning house were Most Noble (_Nobilissimi_). To the
members of the senate, including the officials of the very highest rank,
viz., the consuls, proconsuls, and præfects, there was reserved the
title of Most Distinguished (_Clarissimi_), while officers of lower
rank, members of the senatorial order but not of the senate, were Most
Perfect (_Perfectissimi_) and Egregious (_Egregii_), the former being of
a higher class than the latter. Such was the order of precedence in
Constantine’s reign, but there was a constant tendency for these
honourable orders to expand, due, no doubt, entirely to the exigencies
of the treasury. Thus the high rank of _Clarissimi_ was bestowed on
those who previously had been only _Perfectissimi_ and _Egregii_, and
two still higher orders of _Illustres_ and _Spectabiles_ were created
for the old _Clarissimi_ and _Perfectissimi_. The two topmost classes
were thus given an upward step.

Such was the new official aristocracy, while a rigid line of division,
quite unknown to Republican and early Imperial Rome, was drawn between
the civil and the military officers of the Empire. The military forces
themselves were organised into two great divisions, (1) the troops
kept permanently upon the frontiers, and (2) the soldiers of the line.
The first were known as _Limitanei_ (Borderers) or _Riparienses_
(Guardians of the Shore), the second name being specially applied to
the soldiers of the Rhine and the Danube. All these troops were
stationed in permanent camps and forts, which often developed into
townships, and it was a rare thing for a legion to be moved to another
quarter of the Empire. Boys grew up and followed their fathers in the
profession of arms in the same camp, and were themselves succeeded by
their own sons. The term of service was twenty-four years, and these
_Limitanei_ were not only soldiers but tillers of the soil, playing a
part precisely similar to the soldier colonists of Russia in her Far
Eastern provinces. The soldiers of the line (_Numeri_), on the other
hand, served for the shorter period of twenty years. They included the
_Palatini_,—practically the successors of the old Prætorian Guard,—the
crack corps of the army, who were divided into regiments bearing such
titles as _Scholares_, _Protectores_, and _Domestici_, and enjoyed the
privilege of guarding the Emperor’s person. Most of the legions of the
line were known as the _Comitatenses_. These were employed in the
interior garrisons of the Empire, and Zosimus—whether justly or not,
it is impossible to say—accuses Constantine of having dangerously
weakened the frontier garrisons and withdrawn too many troops into the
interior. The control of the army, under the Emperor and his two
ministers for war, was vested by the end of the fourth century in
thirty-five commanders bearing the titles of dukes and counts,—the
latter being the higher of the two. Three of these were stationed in
Britain, six in Gaul, one each in Spain and Italy, four in Africa,
three in Egypt, eight in Asia and Syria, and nine along the upper and
lower reaches of the Danube.

Such was the structure which rested upon the purse of the taxpayer and
upon a system of finance inherently vicious and wasteful. The main
support of the treasury was still, as it had always been, the land tax,
known as the _capitatio terrena_, the old _tributum soli_. It was the
landed proprietor (_possessor_) who found the wherewithal to keep the
Empire on its feet. Diocletian had reorganised the census, and, in the
interests of the treasury, had caused a new survey and inventory to be
made of practically every acre of land in every province. By an
ingenious device he had established a system of taxable units (_jugum_
or _caput_), each of which paid the round sum of 100,000 sesterces or
1000 aurei. The unit might be made up of all sorts of land—arable,
pasture, or forest—the value of each being estimated on a regular scale.
Thus five acres of vineyard constituted a unit and were held to be
equivalent to twenty acres of the best arable land, forty acres of
second-class land, and sixty of third-class. Nothing escaped: even the
roughest woodland or moorland was assessed at the rate of four hundred
and fifty acres to the unit. The Emperor and his finance ministers
estimated every year how much was required for the current expenses of
the Empire. When the amount was fixed, they sent word throughout the
provinces, and the various municipal curiæ, or town senates, knew what
their share would be, for each town and district was assessed at so many
thousand units, and each curia or senate was responsible for the money
being raised. The curia was composed of a number of the richest
landowners, who had to collect the tax from themselves and their
neighbours as best they could. If, therefore, any _possessor_ became
bankrupt, the others had to make up the shortage between them. Those who
were solvent had to pay for the insolvent. All loopholes of evasion were
carefully closed. Landowners were not permitted to quit their district
without special leave from the governor; they could not join the army or
enter the civil service. When it was found that large numbers were
becoming ordained in the Christian Church to escape their obligations,
an edict was issued forbidding it. Once a decurion always a decurion.

The provincial country landowner and the small farmer were almost taxed
out of existence by this monstrous system. Every ten or fifteen years,
it is true, a revision of the assessments took place, and there were
certain officials, with the significant name of _defensores_, whose duty
it was to prevent the provincials from being fleeced too flagrantly. But
a man might easily be reduced to beggary by a succession of bad harvests
before the year of revision came round, and the _defensor’s_ office was
a sinecure except in the rare occasions when he knew that he would be
backed at the headquarters of the diocese. During Constantine’s reign,
or at least during its closing years, there is overpowering evidence
that the provincial governors were allowed to plunder at discretion.
They imitated the reckless prodigality of their sovereign, who, in 331,
was compelled to issue an edict to restrain the peculation of his
officers. There is a very striking phrase in Ammianus Marcellinus who
says that while Constantine started the practice of opening the greedy
jaws of his favourites, his son, Constantius, fattened them up on the
very marrow of the provinces.[147] Evidently, the incidence of this land
tax inflicted great hardships and had the mischievous result of draining
the province of capital, and of dragging down to ruin the independent
cultivator of the land. Hence districts were constantly in arrears of
payment, and the remission of outstanding debt to the treasury was
usually the first step taken by an Emperor to court popularity with his
subjects.

-----

Footnote 147:

  _Proximorum fauces aperuit primus omnium Consiantinus sed eos medullis
  provinciarum saginavit Constantius_ (xvi., c. 8, 12).

-----

In short, the fiscal system of the Empire, so far as its most important
item, the land tax, was concerned, seemed expressly designed to exhaust
the wealth of the provinces. It helped to introduce a system of caste,
which became more rigid and cramping as the years passed by and the
necessities of the treasury became more urgent. It also powerfully
contributed to crush out of existence the yeoman farmer, whose
insolvency was followed, if not by slavery, at any rate by a serfdom
which just as effectually robbed him of freedom of movement. The
_colonus_ having lost the title-deeds of his own land became the
hireling of another, paying in kind a fixed proportion of his stock and
crops, and obliged to give personal service for so many days on that
part of the estate where his master resided. The position of the poor
_colonus_, in fact, became precisely similar to that of a slave who had
not obtained full freedom but had reached the intermediate state of
serfdom, in which he was permanently attached to a certain estate as, so
to speak, part of the fixtures. He was said to be “ascribed to the land”
(_ascripticius_), and he had no opportunity of bettering his social
position or enabling his sons to better theirs, unless they were
recruited for the legions.

[Illustration: SOLIDUS OF MAXIMIN DAZA.]

[Illustration: SOLIDUS OF LICINIUS I.]

[Illustration: SOLIDUS OF LICINIUS II.]

[Illustration: DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF CONSTANTINE THE GREAT.]

The land tax, of course, was not the only one, for the theory of
Imperial finance was that everybody and everything should pay.
Constantine did not spare his new aristocracy. Every member of the
senatorial order paid a property tax known as “the senatorial purse”
(_follis senatoria_), and another imposition bearing the name of _aurum
oblaticium_, which was none the more palatable because it was supposed
to be a voluntary offering. Any senator, moreover, might be summoned to
the capital to serve as prætor and provide a costly entertainment—a
convenient weapon in the hands of autocracy to clip the wings of an
obnoxious ex-official. Another ostensibly voluntary contribution to the
Emperor was the _aurum coronarium_, or its equivalent of a thousand or
two thousand pieces of gold, which each city of importance was obliged
to offer to the sovereign on festival occasions, such as the celebration
of five or ten complete years of rule. Every five years, also, there was
a _lustralis collatio_ to be paid by all shopkeepers and usurers,
according to their means. This was usually spoken of as “the
gold-silver” (_chrysargyrum_), and, like “the senatorial purse,” is said
by some authorities to have been the invention of Constantine himself.
Zosimus, in a very bitter attack on the fiscal measures of the Emperor,
declares that even the courtesans and the beggars were not exempt from
the extortion of the treasury officials, and that whenever the tribute
had to be paid, nothing was heard but groaning and lamentation. The
scourge was brought into play for the persuasion of reluctant taxpayers;
women were driven to sell their sons, and fathers their daughters. Then
there were the _capitatio humana_, a sort of poll-tax on all labourers;
the old five per cent. succession duty; an elaborate system of octroi
(_portoria_), and many other indirect taxes. We need not, perhaps,
believe the very worst pictures of human misery drawn by the historians,
for, in fairness to the Emperors, we must take some note of the roseate
accounts of the official rhetoricians. Nazarius, for example, explicitly
declares that Constantine had given the Empire “peace abroad, prosperity
at home, abundant harvests, and cheap food.”[148] Eusebius again and
again conjures up a vision of prosperous and contented peoples, living
not in fear of the tax-collector, but in the enjoyment of their
sovereign’s bounty. But we fear that the sombre view is nearer the truth
than the radiant one, and that the subsequent financial ruin, which
overtook the western even more than the eastern provinces, was largely
due to the oppressive and wasteful fiscal system introduced and
developed by Diocletian and Constantine, and to the old standing defect
of Roman administration, that the civil governor was also the judge, and
thus administrative and judicial functions were combined in the same
hands.

-----

Footnote 148:

  _Omnia foris placida, domi prospera; annonæ ubertas, fructuum copia_
  (_Pan. Vet._, x., 38).

-----

Here, indeed, lay one of the strongest elements of disintegration in the
reorganised Empire, but there were other powerful solvents at work, at
which we may briefly glance. One was slavery, the evil results of which
had been steadily accumulating for centuries, and if these were
mitigated to some extent by the increasing scarcity of slaves, the
degradation of the poor freeman to the position of a _colonus_ more than
counterbalanced the resultant good. Population, so far from increasing,
was going back, and, in order to fill the gaps, the authorities had
recourse to the dangerous expedient of inviting in the barbarian. The
land was starving for want of capital and labour, and the barbarian
_colonus_ was introduced, as we have seen in an earlier chapter, not, if
the authorities are to be trusted, by tens, but by hundreds of
thousands, “to lighten the tribute by the fruits of his toil and to
relieve the Roman citizens of military service.” This was the principal
and certainly the original reason why recourse was had to the barbarian;
the idea that the German or the Goth was less dangerous inside than
outside the frontier, and would help to bear the brunt of the pressure
from his kinsmen, came later. The result, however, of importing a strong
Germanic and Gothic element into the Empire was one of active
disintegration. Though they occupied but a humble position industrially,
as tillers of the soil, they formed the best troops in the Imperial
armies. The boast which Tacitus put into the mouth of a Gallic soldier
in the first century, that the alien trooper was the backbone of the
Roman army,[149] was now an undoubted truth, and the spirit which these
strangers brought with them was that of freedom, quite antagonistic to
the absolutism of the Empire.

-----

Footnote 149:

  _Nihil in exercitibus validum nisi externum._

-----

There was yet another great solvent at work,—in its cumulative effects
the greatest of them all,—the solvent of Christianity, dissociating, as
it did, spiritual from temporal authority, and introducing the
absolutely novel idea of a divine law that in every particular took
precedence of mundane law. The growth of the power of the Church, as a
body entirely distinct from the State and claiming a superior moral
sanction, was a new force introduced into the Roman Empire, which,
beyond question, weakened its powers of resistance to outside enemies,
inasmuch as it caused internal dissensions and divisions. The furious
hatreds between Christianity and paganism which lasted in the West down
to the fall of Rome, and the equally furious hatreds within the Church
which continued both in East and West for long centuries, can only be
considered a source of serious weakness. No one disputes that the
desperate and murderous struggle between Catholic and Huguenot retarded
the development of France and weakened her in the face of the enemy, and
it stands to reason that a nation which is torn by intestinal quarrel
cannot present an effective front to foreign aggression. It wastes
against members of its own household part of the energy which should be
infused into the blows which it delivers at its foe.

Christianity has always tended to break down distinctions and prejudices
of race. It has never done so wholly and never will, but the tendency is
forever at work, and, as such, in the days of the Empire, it was opposed
both to the Roman and to the Greek spirit. For though there had already
sprung up a feeling of cosmopolitanism within the Empire, it cannot be
said to have extended to those without the Empire, who were still
barbarians in the eyes not only of Greek or Roman, but of the Romanised
Celt and Iberian, whose civilisation was no longer a thin veneer. When
we say that Christianity was a disintegrating element in this respect,
the term is by no means wholly one of reproach. For it also implies that
Christianity assisted the partial fusion which took place when at length
the frontier barriers gave way and the West was rushed by the Germanic
races. These races were themselves Christianised to a certain extent.
They, too, worshipped the Cross and the Christ, and this circumstance
alone must, to a very considerable degree, have mitigated for the Roman
provinces the terrors and disasters of invasion. It is true that the
invaders were for the most part Arians,—though it is a manifest
absurdity to suppose that the free Germans from beyond the Rhine
understood even the elements of a controversy so metaphysical and so
purely Greek,—and, when Arian and Catholic fought, they tipped their
barbs with poison. “I never yet,” said Ammianus Marcellinus, “found wild
beasts so savagely hostile to men, as most of the Christians are to one
another.”[150] But the fact remains that the German and Gothic
conquerors, who settled where they had conquered, accepted the
civilisation of the vanquished even though they modified it to their own
needs; they did not wipe it out and substitute their own, as did the
Turk and the Moor when they appeared, later on, at the head of their
devastating hordes. If, therefore, Christianity tended to weaken, it
also tended to assimilate, and we are not sure that the latter process
was not fully as important as the former. The Roman Empire, as a
universal power, had long been doomed; Christianity, in this respect,
simply accelerated its pace down the slippery slope.

-----

Footnote 150:

  _Nullas infestas hominibus bestias ut sunt sibi ferales plerique
  Christianorum expertus_ (xxii., 5).

-----

But other and more specific charges have been brought against
Christianity. One is that it contributed largely to the depopulation of
the Empire, which, from the point of view of the State, was an evil of
the very greatest magnitude. The indictment cannot be refuted wholly. In
the name of Christianity extravagant and pernicious doctrines were
preached of which it would be difficult to speak with patience, did we
not remember that violent disorders need violent remedies. No one can
doubt the unutterable depravity and viciousness which were rampant and
unashamed in the Roman Empire, especially in the East. If there was a
public conscience at all, it was silent. Decent, clean-living people
held fastidiously aloof and tolerated the existence of evils which they
did nothing to combat. A strong protest was needed; it was supplied by
Christianity. But many of those who took upon themselves to denounce the
sins of the age felt compelled to school themselves to a rigid
asceticism which made few allowances not only for the weaknesses but
even for the natural instincts of human nature. The more fanatical among
them grudgingly admitted that marriage was honourable, but rose to
enthusiastic frenzy in the contemplation of virginity, which, if they
dared not command, they could and did commend with all the eloquence of
which they were capable. One cannot think without pity of all the
self-torture and agonising which this new asceticism—new, at least, in
this aggravated form—brought upon hundreds and thousands of men and
women, whose services the State needed and would have done well to
possess, but who cut themselves off from mundane affairs, and withdrew
into solitudes, not to learn there how to help their fellowmen but
consumed only with a selfish anxiety to escape from the wrath to come.
They thought of nothing but the salvation of their own souls. It is
impossible to see how these wild hermits, who peopled the Libyan
deserts, were acceptable in the sight either of themselves, their
fellows, or their God. Simon Stylites, starving sleepless on his pillar
in the posture of prayer for weeks, remains for all time as a monument
of grotesque futility. If charity regards him with pity, it can only
regard with contempt those who imputed his insane endurance unto him for
righteousness. No one can estimate the amount of unnecessary misery and
sufferings caused by these extreme fanatics, who broke up homes without
remorse, played on the fears and harrowed the minds of impressionable
men and women, and debased the human soul in their frantic endeavour to
fit it for the presence of its Maker. They stand in the same category as
the gaunt skeletons who drag themselves on their knees from end to end
of India in the hope of placating a mild but irresponsive god. Man’s
first duty may be towards God; but not to the exclusion of his duty
towards the State.

It is not to be supposed, of course, that the majority of Christians
were led to renounce the world and family life. The weaker brethren are
always in a majority, and we do not doubt that most of the Christian
priests were of like mind with their flock in taking a less heroic but
far more common-sense view. It is also to be noted that the practical
Roman temper speedily modified the extravagances of the eastern
fanatics, and the asceticism of monks and nuns living in religious
communities in the midst of their fellow-citizens, and working to heal
their bodies as well as to save their souls, stands on a very different
plane from the entirely self-centred eremitism associated with Egypt. By
doing the work of good Samaritans the members of these communities acted
the part of good citizens. Succeeding Emperors, whose Christianity was
unimpeachable, looked with cold suspicion on the recluses of the
deserts. Valens, for example, regarding their retirement as an evasion
of their civic duties, published an edict ordering that they should be
brought back; Theodosius with cynical wisdom said that as they had
deliberately chosen to dwell in the desert, he would take care that they
stopped there. But it is easy to exaggerate the influence wielded by
extreme men, whose doctrines and professions only emerge from obscurity
because of their extravagances. We must not, therefore, lay too much
stress on the constant exhortations to celibacy and virginity which we
find even in the writings of such men as Jerome and Ambrose. However
zealously they plied the pitchfork, human nature just as persistently
came back, and the extraordinary outspokenness of Jerome, for example,
in his letters to girls who had pledged themselves to virginity—an
outspokenness based on the confident assumption that human, and more
especially womanly, nature is weak and liable to err—shews that he was
profoundly diffident of the success of his preaching. Nevertheless, when
the counsel of perfection offered by the Church was the avoidance of
marriage, it is a just charge against Christianity that it was in this
respect anti-civic and anti-social.

[Illustration: DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF CONSTANTINE THE GREAT.]

[Illustration: DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF FAUSTA.]

[Illustration: DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF CRISPUS.]

[Illustration: DOUBLE SOLIDUS OF CONSTANTIUS II. AS CÆSAR.]

On the other hand, it is to be remembered that this avoidance of
marriage and its responsibilities was no new thing in the Roman Empire.
For centuries the State had been alarmed at the growth of an
unwillingness, manifested especially in the higher orders of society, to
undertake the duties of parentage. Special bounties and immunities from
taxation were offered to the fathers even of three children; checks were
placed upon divorce; taxes were levied upon the obstinate bachelor and
widower who clung to what he called the blessings of detached
irresponsibility (_præmia orbitatis_). These laws were all based on the
theory that it is a man’s civic duty to marry and give sons and
daughters to the service of his country, and we find one of the
Panegyrists declaring them to be the very foundation of the State,
because they supply a nursery of youth and a constant flow of manly
vigour to the Roman armies.[151] Yet so powerful were the attractions of
a childless life (_prævalida orbitate_—_Tac._, _Ann._, iii., 25) that
the whole series of Julian laws on this subject had proved of little
value, and Tacitus had declared that the remedy was worse than the
disease. The motives of the luxurious voluptuary or the fastidious cynic
were widely different from those of the Christian enthusiast for bodily
purity, but by a curious irony they were directed towards the same
object—the avoidance of matrimony.

-----

Footnote 151:

  _Vere dicuntar esse fundamenta rei publicæ, quia seminarium juventutis
  et quasi fontem humani roboris semper Romanis exercitibus
  ministrarunt_ (_Pan. Vet._, vi., 2).

-----

There was also brought against Christianity the charge that it
discouraged military service and looked askance upon the profession of
arms. The accusation is true within certain limits. Christianity was and
is a gospel of peace. Ideally, therefore, it is always antagonistic to
war as a general principle, and there is always a considerable section
of Christian opinion which is opposed, irrespective of the justice of
the quarrel, to an appeal to arms. That section of Christian opinion was
naturally at its strongest when the Roman Empire was pagan, and when it
was practically impossible for a Christian to be a soldier without
finding himself compelled to worship, at the altars of Rome, the Roman
Emperor and the Roman gods. _Omnis militia est religio_, Seneca had said
most truly. There was a permanent altar fixed before the _prætorium_ of
every camp. That being the case, one can understand that the army was
regarded with abhorrence by every Christian at a time when Christianity
was a proscribed, or barely tolerated, religion, and hence the violent
denunciations of the army and military service to be found in some of
the early Fathers. Hence too the number of Christian soldier martyrs,
who had been converted while serving in the ranks. But the whole case
was changed when the Roman Emperor was a Christian, and the army took
its oath to a champion and no longer to an enemy of the Church. The
bishops at once changed front—they could not help themselves—and at the
Council of Arles we have seen the Gallican bishops passing a canon
anathematising any Christian who flung down his arms in time of peace.
There were still extremists, as there are to-day, who denounced war with
indiscriminate censure; there must have been a much larger number who
acquiesced in standing armies as a necessary evil, but themselves
carefully kept aloof from service; the majority, as to-day, would
recognise that the security of a State rests ultimately upon force, and
would pray that their cause might be just whenever that force had to be
put into operation. It is not Tertullian with his dangerous doctrine
that politics have no interest for the Christian (_nec ulla magis res
aliena quam publica_), that the Christian has no country but the world,
and that Christ had bidden the nations disarm when he bade Peter put up
his sword—it is not Tertullian who is the typical representative of the
Church in its relations with the State and mundane affairs, but the
broad-minded Augustine who, when nervous Christians appealed to him to
say whether a Christian could serve God as a soldier, said that a man
might do his duty to his God and his Emperor as well in a camp as
elsewhere.

God-fearing men could spend their days in the legions without peril to
their souls, but the atmosphere of a Roman camp, full as it was of
barbarians and semi-barbarians, naturally cannot have been congenial to
the Christian religion. In spite of the Labarum, service in the army was
discountenanced by the more zealous Christian bishops. Yet nothing could
be more unfair than to charge Christianity with having introduced into
the Roman world the reluctance to carry arms. That reluctance dated back
to the latter days of the Republic. Christianity merely intensified it.

Christianity, again, may be acquitted of having caused the decadence of
literature and the arts. That decadence was of long standing. There had
been a steady decline from the brilliant circle of Augustan poets and
prose writers to the days of the Antonines. The third century had been
utterly barren of great names. Literature had become imitation;
originality was lost. Society was literary in tone; grammarians and
rhetoricians flourished; learning was not dead but active; yet the
results, so far as creative work was concerned, were miserably small.
But if Christianity cannot be held responsible for the poverty of
imagination in the ranks of pagan society, it must be held responsible
for its own shortcomings. It often assumed an attitude of open hostility
to the ancient literature, which was to be explained—and, so long as
paganism was a living force, might be justified—by the fact that the
poetry of Rome was steeped in pagan associations. Men to whom Jupiter
was a false deity or demon; to whom the radiance of Apollo was hateful
because it was a snare to the unwary; to whom the purity of Diana, the
cold stateliness of Minerva, the beauty of Venus, and the bountifulness
of Ceres, were all treacherous delusions and masks of sin, and all
equally pernicious to the soul, found in the very charm of style and the
seductiveness of language of the old poetry another reason for keeping
it out of the hands of their children and for themselves eschewing its
dangerous delights. It is difficult to blame them. Protestants and
Catholics even of the present day are studiously ignorant of the special
literatures of the other, and if the Christian eschewed the classical
poets, the educated pagan was grotesquely ignorant of the Christian’s
“Holy Books.”

But this point must not be pursued too far. Education itself was based
on the ancient literature of Greece and Rome—there was, indeed, nothing
else on which to base it—and in the ablest and most cultured of the
Christian writers the influence of the classical authors is evident on
every page. Jerome dreamt that an angel came to rebuke him for his love
of the rounded periods of Cicero—_Ciceronianus es, non Christianus_.
Augustine bewails the tears he had wasted on the moving story of the
Fall of Troy, while his heart was insensible to the sufferings of the
Son of God. Lines and half lines from Virgil, or the choice of a
Virgilian epithet, betray the ineradicable influence of the Mantuan over
Ambrose. Even the author of the _De Mortibus Persecutorum_, despite his
ferocious hatred of paganism, takes evident pleasure in the Ciceronian
flavour of his maledictions. Do what he would, the cultured and educated
Christian could not escape from the spell of the poets of antiquity.
There were, of course, narrow-minded fanatics in plenty who would
cheerfully have burned the contents of every pagan library and have
imagined that they were offering an acceptable sacrifice, and there were
doubtless many more who, without vindictiveness towards the classics,
were quite content with want of culture, deeming that ignorance was more
becoming to Christian simplicity (_Simplex sermo veritatis._) The
tendencies of Christianity, as compared with paganism, were not towards
what we call the humanities and a liberal education, for the dominant
feeling was that there was only one book in the world which really
mattered, and that was the Bible. There was, it is true, a slight
literary renaissance starting at the close of the fourth century, with
which we associate the names of Ausonius, Paulinus of Nola, Prudentius,
and Claudian. This was mainly Christian. Ausonius strictly followed
classical models; the graceful yet vigorous hymns of Prudentius were an
original and valuable contribution to literature; Claudian stands
neutral. “The last of the classics,” as Mr. Mackail has well said,[152]
“he is, at the same time, the earliest and one of the most distinguished
of the classicists. It might seem a mere chance whether his poetry
belonged to the fourth or to the sixteenth century.” This literary
renaissance, however, was a last flicker, and while we have to thank the
Church for preserving the Latin tongue, we owe it little thanks—compared
with the paganism it had overthrown—for its services to culture and the
humanities. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the classics had to
be rediscovered and relearnt: the dead spirit of humanism had to be
quickened to a new birth.

-----

Footnote 152:

  _History of Latin Literature_, Bk. III., c. 7.

-----

Hard things have been said of Christianity and its influence upon the
Roman Empire, harder perhaps than the facts warrant, though the
bitterness of many of the critics has been directly provoked by the
boundless assumptions of the Christian apologists. Looking back
dispassionately upon the period with which we have been dealing, it is
not difficult to see why the Church triumphed and why the nations
acquiesced as readily as they did in the downfall of paganism. The
reason is that the world had grown stale. It had outlived all its old
ideals. It was sick of doubt, weary of bloodshed and strife, and
nervously apprehensive, we can hardly question, of the cataclysm that
was to burst upon the West and submerge it before another century was
over. The philosophies were worn out. The gods themselves had grown
grey. There was a general atmosphere of numbness and decrepitude. Men
wanted consolation and hope. Christianity alone could supply it, and
though Christianity itself had lost its early joyousness, freshness, and
simplicity, it retained unimpaired its marvellous powers to console. To
a world tired of questioning and search it returned an answer for which
it claimed the sanction of absolute Truth. The old spirit was not wholly
dead. One may see it revive from time to time in the various heresies
which split the Church. But it was ruthlessly suppressed, and humanity
had to purchase back its liberty of thought at a great price, ten or
more centuries later, when the world realised that her ancient deliverer
had herself become a tyrant. Nevertheless, few can seriously doubt that
the triumph of the Christian Church was an unspeakable boon to mankind.
The Roman Empire was doomed. Its downfall was certain and, on the whole,
was even to be desired, so long as its civilisation was not wholly wiped
out and the genius of past generations was not wholly destroyed.

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                                 INDEX


          A

 Achillas, 190
 _Acts of Pilate, The_, anti-Christian pamphlet, 145, 146
 Adrianople, battle of, 128, 158
 Ælianus, Proconsul of Africa, 172, 173
 Alemanni defeated by Crispus, 124
 Alexander, a Phrygian, leads revolt in Africa, 76
 Alexander of Alexandria, holds Arius in high esteem, 190;
   becomes involved in controversy with Arius, 192 _ff._;
   summons provincial synod, 195;
   denounces Arians, 201 _ff._;
   attacks Eusebius of Nicomedia, 203;
   at Council of Nicæa, 214;
   influenced by Athanasius, 215;
   prayer for the truth in regard to Arius, 274, 298;
   death, 286;
   refuses to admit Arius to communion, 298
 Amandus, Admiral, defeated by Crispus, 129
 Ambrose, St., exhortations to avoid marriage, 348;
   influenced by Virgil, 353.
 Ammianus Marcellinus, quoted, 345
 Anastasia, half-sister to Constantine, 120
 Anastasis, Church of, dedicated,3 11
 Ancyra, Council of, canons, 153
 Annibalianus, son-in-law of Constantine, 309
 Antony, Saint, 147, 297
 Anulinus, proconsul of Africa, letter from Constantine to, 167, 168
 Apollo, statue of, 270, 271
 Arcadius, rebuilds walls of Constantinople, 266
 Arch of Constantine, 91
 Arian controversy, 189 _ff._, 223 _ff._;
   Canon Bright on, 194;
   Gibbon on, 194
 Arianism, origin, 189 _ff._;
   leading tenet, 193 _ff._, 198, 223, 224;
   Canon Bright on, 194;
   class to which it appealed, 197 _ff._;
   claims, 198 _ff._;
   formal condemnation of, 229

 Arians, edicts against, 286;
   and Constantia, 289;
   paramount at Imperial Court, 290;
   plot against Athanasius, 290

 “Ariomaniacs,” 206

 Aristaces repeats Nicene Creed to his father, 285

 Arius, a power in Alexandria, 190;
   character, 190, 191;
   preaching strange doctrine, 191;
   starts controversy, 192 _ff._;
   denounces Alexander, 193;
   defends his doctrine before synod, 195 _ff._;
   excommunicated, 196, 231, 236;
   finds champion in Eusebius of Nicomedia, 200 _ff._;
   synod of Bithynian bishops sympathises with, 202 _ff._;
   _Thalia_, 204 _ff._, 222, 231;
   Constantine intervenes between Alexander and, 207 _ff._;
   at Council of Nicæa, 214, 221, 231, 236;
   and Eusebian party, 229 _ff._;
   recalled from exile, 287, 288;
   Constantine’s attack on, 288;
   pronounced a true Catholic by Council of Tyre, 295;
   returns to Alexandria, 297;
   questioned as to his faith, by Constantine, 297;
   seeks admission to Church at Constantinople, 298, 299;
   death, 299, 300

 Arles, Council of, 173-176;
   canons of, 177, 178, 351

 Armenia, recovered for Rome, 6;
   Saint Gregory in, 27

 Arsenius, legend of withered hand, 293

 Athanasians and baptism of Constantine, 315

 Athanasius, Saint, on help given to persecuted Christians, 28;
   _First Discourse against the Arians_, quoted, 204, 205;
   influence on Alexander, 214, 215;
   leader of Trinitarians, 221;
   on Council of Nicæa, 222-224;
   in Arian controversy, 227;
   condemnation of, 231, 295;
   banished, 239, 296;
   elected bishop, 286;
   plot against, 290;
   refuses to restore Arius to communion, 291;
   Constantine threatens, 291, 292;
   campaign of calumny against, 292;
   refuses to attend trial at Cæsarea, 293;
   trial at Council of Tyre, 293-295;
   appeals to Constantine, 294, 295

 Augustæum, the, 268, 269

 Augustine, Saint, Bishop of Hippo, on Botrus and Celestius, 164;
   on Donatists, 181, 182;
   on the Circumcelliones, 186;
   and the Donatist schism, 187;
   on Constantine, 329;
   on Christian duty, 351;
   and ancient literature, 353

 Aurelian, Emperor, recovers Britain and Gaul, 3;
   murdered, 4;
   persecution of Christians, 13;
   influence on Galerius, 17;
   subdues Goths and Sarmatæ, 123

 Ausonius, 354

          B

 Bassianus, 120

 Botrus, deacon, 164

 Bright, Canon, quoted, on Arianism, 194, 199;
   on philosophy and the Church, 227

 Britain, Carausius ruler of, 6;
   Constantius ruler of, 8;
   Constantine ruler of, 51, 56, 76, 82;
   Constantius recovers, 52, 53;
   Crispus ruler of, 124

 Burnt Pillar, the, 270

 Bury, Professor, quoted, on Constantine, 328

 Byzantium, capitulation of, 115, 128;
   naval battle at, 129, 259;
   advantages of position, 259, 261;
   chosen by Constantine as site for a new city, 259, 260;
   renowned, 2 61;
   withstandsPhilip of Macedon, 262;
   Polybius on, 262;
   prosperity, 262, 263

 Byzas, the Megarian, founder of Byzantium, 261

          C

 Cæcilianus, rebukes Lucilla, 163;
   elected bishop, 164;
   position challenged, 165, 166, 170, 171, 173, 178;
   letter from Constantine to, 166, 167;
   summoned to Rome, 180, 181;
   Constantine’s verdict on, 182;
   Donatists refuse to obey, 184

 Cæsarea, Council of, 292, 293

 Caius, 238

 Candidianus executed, 119

 Carausius, 6, 65

 Carinus, son of Carus, Empire divided between Numerian and, 4;
   death, 5

 Carnuntum, conference at, 63, 64

 Carthage sacked, 76

 Carthage, Council of, 188

 Carus devastates Persia, 4

 Catholic Party, 165 _ff._; 297

 Celestius, deacon, 164

 “Champions of the Lord,” the, 185

 Chrestus, Bishop of Syracuse, 175

 Christian martyrs, 15, 17 _ff._, 28, 30 _ff._, 136 _ff._, 147, 157

 Christian schools of Antioch and Alexandria, 213

 Christianity, rapid spread, 12;
   embraced by Constantine, 93 _ff._, 306, 312 _ff._;
   element in disintegration of Empire, 343, 344, 346;
   element of assimilation, 345;
   tendency to depopulate Empire, 346-350;
   and asceticism, 346-348;
   and military service, 350-352;
   and literature and art, 352-354;
   influence upon Roman Empire, 355, 356

 Christians, persecution of, 12 _ff._, 27, 134 _ff._;
   erect church at Nicomedia, 13;
   and Neo-Platonists, 19, 20

 Chrysopolis, battle of, 130, 158

 Church, the, condition in reign of Diocletian, 12-14, 16;
   persecution of, 12 _ff._, 134 _ff._;
   and State, 13, 14, 158, 234, 343, 344;
   schisms in, 153, 159 _ff._, 189; 211 _ff._;
   triumph of, 236, 355, 356;
   persecution ended, 285;
   and marriage, 349

 Cibalis, battle of, 121

 Circumcelliones, a religious sect, 185, 186

 Cirta, capital of Numidia, sacked, 76;
   renamed, 186

 Cirta, synod of, 161, 162

 Cistern of Philoxenos, 273

 Claudian, 354

 Claudius subdues Goths and Sarmatæ, 3, 123

 Coins, 239, 314, 318

 _Colonus_, the, condition, 340, 342, 343

 Column of Constantine, 270

 Constans, son of Constantine, 238, 309

 Constantia, wife of Licinius, pleads for his life 131;
   influence, 200, 230, 239, 289

 Constantina, daughter of Constantine, 309

 Constantina, new name of Cirta, 186

 Constantine, Emperor, birth and parentage, 43, 44;
   birthplace, 44, 260;
   early life and characteristics, 45;
   ambitions, 46;
   escape from Galerius, 47;
   joins his father, 48;
   saluted as Augustus by the troops, 49;
   declares himself Emperor, 50;
   acknowledged as Cæsar by Galerius, 50;
   Cæsar of the West, 51;
   victory over the Franks, 53-55;
   attitude toward Galerius, 60;
   marriage, 61;
   alliance of Maximian and Maxentius with, 62;
   relations with Diocletian, 64;
   acknowledged as Augustus by Galerius, 66;
   recognises Maximian, 67;
   expedition against the Franks, 67, 68;
   quells Maximian, 69;
   plots against, 70, 71;
   his domain, 76;
   alliance of Licinius with, 79;
   war with Maxentius, 80 _ff._;
   battle of Milvian Bridge, 86, 87;
   triumphal procession in Rome, 88;
   disbands Prætorians, 89;
   acts of conciliation, 90;
   games and festivals in honour of, 91;
   vision of the Cross and conversion, 92, 95 _ff._;
   issues Edict of Milan, 107 _ff._;
   and Licinius share Roman Empire, 120;
   war with Licinius, 120 _ff._;
   defeats Licinius at Cibalis, 121;
   defeats Licinius at Mardia, 121;
   treaty with Licinius, 122;
   appoints Crispus as Cæsar,1 22;
   his sons, 123;
   rupture with Licinius, 123 _ff._, 154;
   triumphs of, 124;
   champion of the Church, 126, 127;
   defeats Licinius at Adrianople, 128;
   victory at Byzantium, 129;
   generalship of, 130;
   victory at Chrysopolis, 130;
   treatment of Licinius, 131, 132;
   signs edict of toleration, 140;
   overthrow of Maxentius, 153;
   recalls exiled Christians, 158;
   and the Donatists, 159 _ff._;
   African bishops appeal to, 159;
   presents money to African clergy, 166;
   letter to Cæcilianus, 166;
   letter to Anulinus, 167;
   party of Majorinus appeal to, 169;
   letter to Miltiades, 169;
   letter to Ælianus, 172-174;
   letter to Chrestus, 175;
   letter to Council of Arles, 178-180;
   summons Cæcilianus to Rome, 180;
   letter to Donatist bishops, 180;
   letter to Probianus, 181;
   passes judgment on Cæcilianus, 182;
   change of policy, 183;
   ignores African Church, 185;
   letter to the Catholics and his opinion of the Donatists, 187;
   and Arian controversy, 189, 207-210, 285-297;
   calls Council of Nicæa, 211;
   opens the Council, 217-219;
   and Nicene Creed, 230;
   celebrates his Vicennalia, 232, 233, 239, 322;
   farewell speech to Council of Nicæa, 233, 234;
   letter “To the Churches,” 235;
   family, 237;
   mother’s influence upon, 238, 239;
   and Procession of the Knights, 240;
   edict to his subjects, 241;
   turns against Crispus, 242;
   murder of Crispus, Licinianus, and Fausta, 243-247;
   repentance, 247, 249;
   donation of, 248, 249;
   baptism, 248, 249;
   builds churches, 249, 251, 318, 319;
   campaigns against the Goths and Sarmatæ, 252, 253;
   confession of faith, 254, 255;
   relations with Persia, 254-256;
   founder of Constantinople, 257 _ff._;
   edicts against the Arians, 286;
   character, 301 _ff._;
   passion for building, 302, 303;
   division of the Empire, 307-311;
   education of his sons, 308;
   celebrates Tricennalia, 311;
   fatal malady, 312, 313;
   death and burial, 256, 313, 314;
   and religious parties, 316;
   daily religious life, 317;
   edict for observance of Lord’s day, 319;
   prayer, 319;
   policy toward old religion, 320 _ff._;
   edict giving religious freedom, 321;
   Pontifex Maximus, 322 _ff._;
   and divination, 326;
   edict to abolish gladiatorial shows, 327;
   reforms, 330;
   attitude of subjects to, 331;
   organisation of Empire, 331;
   fiscal system of, 339-342

 Constantine, son of the Emperor Constantine, 296, 309

 Constantinople, foundation of, 257 _ff._;
   called “New Rome,” 258;
   and Napoleon, 259;
   part rebuilt, 266;
   called Septicollis, 266;
   dedication, 267;
   plan and buildings, 269;
   forum, 269;
   palaces, 272;
   aqueducts, 273;
   Hippodrome, 274, 276;
   churches, 274-276

 Constantinus, son of Constantine, 309, 314

 Constantius, son of Constantine, persecution of Christians, 134;
   birth, 238;
   appointed Cæsar of Gaul, 242;
   named consul, 243

 Constantius Chlorus, Cæsar, 5;
   goes to Britain, 6;
   domain, 8;
   character, 16, 328;
   attitude toward Christians, 16, 26;
   becomes emperor, 40;
   ancestry, 44;
   marriage, 44;
   loyalty, 46;
   death, 49

 Consuls, 334

 “Council of the 318,” the, 212

 Crispus, son of Constantine, becomes Cæsar, 122;
   victory over Alemanni, 124, 125;
   victory over Amandus, 129;
   heir to throne, 237;
   victories, 237;
   and Fausta, 238;
   Constantine turns against, 242, 243;
   death, 243

 Curia, the, 338

          D

 Dalmatius, 310

 Damasus, Pope, 152

 Datianus, 29

 Decius, Emperor, persecution of the Christians, 13

 Diocletian, Emperor, accession, 5, 45;
   chooses colleagues, 5;
   recovers Armenia for Rome 6;
   attitude toward Galerius, 7, 8;
   controlling spirit in the Empire, 8;
   locates his capital, 8, 57;
   domain, 8;
   changes introduced by, 9;
   decentralisation in the provinces, 10;
   prosperous reign, 11;
   persecution of the Christians, 12, 24 _ff._, 79, 160;
   wife and daughters, 13;
   neutrality toward the Church, 14;
   neutralitychanged to antagonism, 16, 19;
   influenced by Galerius, 16, 25, 70, 74;
   edict against the Manichæans, 22, 23;
   and Galerius, 23;
   edicts against the Christians, 26, 99, 134;
   motive for persecution, 38;
   abdication, 39, 41, 43;
   chooses new Cæsars, 40, 41;
   retires to private life, 40, 46;
   system of organisation, 50, 65, 66, 74, 123, 242, 311, 330, 331, 337;
   recognises Carausius, 51;
   invited to conference at Carnuntum, 63, 64;
   relations with Constantine, 64;
   treatment of the Senate, 90;
   declinesin vitation to wedding of Constantine’s sister, 106;
   wife and daughter, 118, 119;
   wishes daughter to live with him, 119;
   celebrates Vicennalia, 134, 239, 240;
   proclaims amnesty, 134

 Donatist schism, 159-188

 Donatists, 159-188;
   Constantine’s letter to, 180;
   _raison d’etre_, 183;
   increase in numbers, 185

 Donatus Magnus, leader of Donatist schism, 166, 173, 184, 185

 Donatus of Casæ Nigræ, 165

 Donatus of Mascula, 161

          E

 Easter, celebration, 231, 232

 Education, basis of, 353;
   and Christianity, 354

 Eusebian party, rise, 221;
   and Nicene Creed, 229, 230;
   in favour at Imperial Court, 290;
   confounded at Arius’s death, 299

 Eusebius of Cæsarea, on Constantine’s conversion, 93 _ff._;
   letter of Constantine to, 158;
   friend of Arius, 196, 214;
   teachings, 200;
   on Arian controversy, 206;
   supports middle party at Council of Nicæa, 221;
   creed of, 224, 225;
   signs Nicene Creed, 229, 230;
   on Constantine’s baptism, death, and burial, 312, 315;
   on Constantine’s daily life, 317;
   on Constantine’s religious policy, 320 _ff._

 Eusebius of Nicomedia, as historian, 25;
   _History of the Church_, 27, 71, 97;
   _Life of Constantine_, 27, 97;
   champion of Arius, 200 _ff._, 214;
   calls a synod of Bithynian bishops, 202;
   attacked by Alexander, 203;
   leader of middle party at Council of Nicæa, 221;
   character, 222;
   and the word “Homoousion,” 224;
   signs Nicene Creed, 231;
   exiled, 231, 236;
   recalled, 287, 288;
   succeeds Hosius as adviser to Constantine, 290, 300, 316;
   attack on Athanasius, 291 _ff._;
   attempt to restore Arius, 291;
   baptises Constantine, 313

 Eustathius, Bishop of Antioch, charges against, 291

 Eutropius, on Constantine’s character, 306, 307

          F

 Fausta, wife of Constantine, reveals conspiracy against Constantine,
    71;
   sons, 123;
   attitude toward Crispus, 238, 243, 244;
   death, 244, 245, 247

 Felix, Bishop of Aptunga, 164, 165, 173

 Finance, system of, under Diocletian, 337-339, 342;
   under Constantine, 339-342

 Firmilianus, Governor of Palestine, persecution of Christians, 136

 Franks, 1, 5, 54, 253

          G

 Galerius, Emperor, becomes Cæsar, 5, 39;
   entrusted with command of Parthia, 6;
   victory over Parthians, 7, 74;
   and Diocletian, 8;
   domain, 8;
   capital at Sirmium, 8;
   character and influence, 16, 25;
   mother’s influence, 16;
   persecution of Christians, 17-19, 23-25, 74;
   becomes Augustus, 40;
   nominates new Cæsars, 41, 42;
   attitude toward Constantine, 42, 46, 60;
   sends Constantine to his father, 47, 48;
   acknowledges Constantine as Cæsar, 50;
   extends the census, 57;
   relations with Severus, 59;
   invasion of Italy, 60-62, 76, 81;
   calls a conference at Carnuntum, 63;
   and Diocletian, 63;
   appoints Licinius as Augustus, 64, 65;
   relations with Maximin Daza, 65, 66;
   recognises Maximin as Augustus, 66;
   death, 73, 74, 138;
   estimate of the man, 74, 75;
   nominates his successor, 75;
   edicts, 79, 99;
   aims carried out, 89;
   leaves wife to care of Maximin, 118;
   edict of toleration, 138-140

 Gallienus, and senatorial order, 9;
   issues edicts of toleration, 13

 Gaul, devastated by Franks, 1;
   recovered by Aurelian, 3;
   at Diocletian’s accession, 6;
   Constantius ruler of, 8, 52;
   Constantine in, 51, 56, 76, 82;
   Crispus in, 124, 242

 Gibbon on the Circumcelliones, 186;
   on the Arian controversy, 194;
   on Constantinople, 263, 264;
   on Annibalianus, 309

 Goths, invade Roman Empire, 123, 124;
   war with Constantine, 252

 Gregory of Nyssa on Arian controversy, 206

 Gregory, Saint, in Armenia, 27

 Gregory, the Illuminator of Armenia, and the Nicene Creed, 285

 Grosvenor, Mr., quoted on Constantinople, 273, 275, 278, 281

          H

 Helena, mother of Constantine, ancestry, 43, 44;
   honoured by Constantine, 239;
   and death of Crispus, 245;
   pilgrimage, 249-251;
   legend of finding of the Cross, 250, 251;
   death, 252

 Heraclea, siege of, 115

 Heraclius, elected bishop, 152

 Herculius, 8

 Hermogenes, 228

 Hierocles, author of _The Friend of Truth_, 20

 Holy Apostles, Church of, 275

 Holy Trinity, Church of, 275

 Horses of Lysippus, 283

 Hosius, Bishop of Cordova, commissioned to mediate between Alexander
    and Arius, 207;
   advises Constantine, 211;
   at Council of Nicæa, 212, 221, 228;
   falls from favour, 290, 316

          I

 Imperial Council, 333

 Italy, invasion of, 73 _ff._

          J

 Jerome, Saint, exhortations against marriage, 348, 349;
   dream of, 353

 Jovius, adopted name of Diocletian, 8

 Julian, _Banquet of the Cæsars_, 77

 Julian, Emperor, on Constantine, 124, 303-305;
   on Constantinople, 268

 Julian laws on marriage, 350

 Justinian, statue of, 269;
   builds Church of St. Sophia, 274, 276

          L

 Lactantius, estimate of, as historian, 40-42, 47

 Land tax, 337 _ff._

 Licinianus, becomes Cæsar, 122;
   attitude of Constantine toward, 125;
   life spared, 133;
   death, 243

 Licinius, Emperor, at conference of Carnuntum, 63;
   becomes Augustus, 64-66;
   successor of Galerius, 75;
   and Maximin Daza in eastern half of Empire, 76;
   attitude to Maximin Daza, 79, 80;
   alliance with Constantine, 79;
   marriage, 79, 106;
   and Edict of Milan, 107 _ff._;
   other edicts, 109;
   downfall, 115 _ff._;
   at Milan, 115;
   victory over Maximin Daza, 116, 117;
   angel’s revelation to, 116;
   execution of Maximin Daza’s family, 118, 119;
   execution of Candidianus, 119;
   and Constantine share Empire, 120;
   war with Constantine, 120;
   defeated at Cibalis, 121;
   defeated at Mardia, 121;
   treaty with Constantine, 122;
   appoints Licinianus as Cæsar, 122;
   gives up important provinces, 122;
   rupture with Constantine, 123, 125-127, 154, 157;
   religious policy, 126, 127;
   defeated at Adrianople, 128;
   defeated at Chrysopolis, 130;
   pleads for his life, 131;
   death, 132;
   character, 132;
   edict of toleration, 138-140;
   defeats Maximin, 153;
   anti-Christian campaign, 154, 155, 157;
   throws over Edict of Milan, 155;
   exile, 158

 Literature, anti-Christian, 145;
   decadence of, 352;
   character of pagan, 352;
   basis of education, 353;
   renaissance of, 354

 Lucian of Antioch, famous teacher, 200, 201

 Lucilla, censured by Church of Carthage, 162-164;
   intrigues of, 188

 Ludi Cereales, 36

 Lycians, petition of, 142, 143

          M

 Mackail, Mr., _History of Latin Literature_, quoted, 354

 Majorinus, elected bishop, 165;
   death, 165;
   not recognised by the churches, 166

 Mamertinus, eulogy on Maximian, 52

 Manichæanism, rise, 22, 23;
   chief characteristic, 22

 Marcellus, elected bishop, 151;
   exile and death, 152

 Mardia, battle of, 121

 Maris of Chalcedon, and Nicene Creed, 230, 231;
   exiled, 231

 Marriage, Jerome exhorts against, 348, 349;
   and the State and Church, 349

 Martinianus, becomes Cæsar, 130;
   death, 133

 Maxentius, Emperor, son of Maximian, claims heritage of Cæsar, 56;
   character, 56, 77-79;
   marriage, 57;
   master of Rome, 57, 58;
   resumes title of Augustus, 59;
   and Maximian besiege Severus, 59, 60;
   and Maximian in alliance with Constantine, 60;
   and Maximian in possession of Italy, 62;
   rupture with Maximian, 62, 63, 67, 70;
   domain, 76;
   treatment of African cities, 76;
   loss of popularity, 76;
   restores property to Christians, 79, 152;
   attitude to other Augusti, 79;
   alliance with Maximin Daza, 80;
   war with Constantine, 80 _ff._;
   overthrow, 82 _ff._, 110, 154;
   Italy wrested from, 85;
   death, 87;
   head carried in triumphal procession, 88;
   seeks good-will of Christians, 151;
   exiles bishops, 152;
   libel against, 163

 Maximian, Emperor, becomes Cæsar, 5;
   becomes Augustus, 5;
   ruler of the West, 6, 8;
   fights the Moors, 6;
   recognises Carausius, 6, 51;
   styles himself Herculius, 8;
   character, 14, 15;
   persecution of the Christians, 15-19, 160;
   celebrates the Ludi Cereales, 36;
   abdication, 40, 56;
   restores peace to Gaul, 51;
   eulogised by Mamertinus, 52;
   locates his Court at Milan, 57;
   resumes title of Augustus, 59;
   victory over Severus, 59, 60;
   and Maxentius in alliance with Constantine, 60, 62;
   gives his daughter in marriage to Constantine, 61, 62;
   and Maxentius in possession of Italy, 62;
   rupture with Maxentius, 62, 63, 67, 70;
   expelled from Italy, 63;
   at conference of Carnuntum, 63, 65;
   ex-Augustus, 65, 66;
   returns to Gaul, 67;
   plots against Constantine, 68, 69;
   stripped of his titles, 69;
   further plots against Constantine, 70, 71;
   death, 71, 72

 Maximin Daza, Emperor, becomes Cæsar, 40, 57;
   nominated by Galerius, 41, 42;
   domain, 65, 75;
   claims title of Augustus, 66;
   claims title of senior Augustus, 75;
   and Licinius in eastern half of Empire, 76;
   alliance with Maxentius, 79, 80, 148;
   in opposition to Licinius, 80, 107;
   invades territory of Licinius, 115, 148;
   defeated, 116, 117, 148, 153;
   flight, 117, 118, 148;
   commits suicide, 118, 151;
   province falls into hands of Licinius, 118;
   family slain, 118;
   treatment of Prisca and Valeria, 118, 119;
   persecution of Christians, 135-137, 141-143, 145-147;
   act of toleration, 137, 149-151;
   restores privileges to Christians, 140, 149, 150;
   character, 146, 147;
   eminent victims of, 147;
   war with Tiridates, 148;
   final edict, 149, 150

 Maximus, Governor of Cilicia, 30

 Maximus, Governor of Moesia, 17, 18

 Meletian schismatics checked, 297

 Meletians recognised as orthodox, 295

 Meletius, Bishop of Lycopolis, condemned by Egyptian bishops, 190

 Mensurius, Bishop of Carthage and Primate of Africa, trick to save Holy
    Books, 160;
   summoned to Rome, 164;
   death, 164

 Milan, conference at, 106

 Milan, Edict of, issued, 107, 115;
   important clauses, 107, 108;
   principles and motives of, 109, 110 _ff._;
   hailed by the Christians, 153;
   thrown over by Licinius, 155

 Military forces, organisation of, 336, 337

 Miltiades elected bishop, 152

 Milvian Bridge, battle of, 86, 87, 92

 Minervina, first wife of Constantine, son of, 122, 123

 Moesia, given over to Constantine, 122;
   invaded by Goths and Sarmatæ, 123

 Montanism, in Northern Africa, 159

          N

 Naissus, birthplace of Constantine, 44, 260

 Narses sues for peace, 7

 Neo-Platonists, influence, 19, 197;
   discussions of interest to, 216

 “New Rome,” 259

 Newman, Cardinal, quoted, on death of Arius, 300

 Nicæa, Canons of, 231, 232

 Nicæa, Council of, called by Constantine, 211;
   members, 212-214;
   language, 213;
   great interest aroused in, 215;
   Constantine opens the Council, 217-220;
   splits up into parties, 221 _ff._;
   proceedings, 221 _ff._;
   adopts Nicene Creed, 228;
   excommunicates Arius, 231;
   decision in regard to Easter, 231;
   draws up Canons of Nicæa, 231;
   farewell address by Constantine, 233;
   dismissed, 234

 Nicene Creed adopted, 228 _ff._

 Nicomedia, capital of Diocletian, 8, 39, 258, 260;
   Christian church erected at, 13;
   church at, razed, 24

 Novatianism in Northern Africa, 159

 Numerian, son of Carus, Empire divided between Carinus and, 4;
   death, 5

          P

 Pagan clergy, 146

 Pamphylians, petition of, 142, 143

 Pannonia, given over to Constantine, 122;
   invaded by Goths and Sarmatæ, 123

 Paphnutius, 232, 233

 Parthia, war with Rome, 7

 Parthians, 2

 “Passion of the Saints,” 35, 36

 Paulinus of Nola, 354

 Paulinus of Tyre, treatment of Arius, 196;
   letter from Eusebius of Nicomedia, 202

 Persia, relations with Constantine, 254-256

 Philostorgius, on Fausta, 244

 Philoxenos, 273

 Polybius, quoted, on Byzantium, 262

 Porphyry, Neo-Platonist philosopher, 19

 Porphyry Pillar, the, 270

 Prætorian præfects, 331, 332

 Prætorians, mutiny at Rome, 57;
   camps abolished, 58;
   rule Rome, 77, 78;
   disbanded, 89

 Prætors, 334

 Prisca, wife of Diocletian, a Christian, 13;
   exiled, 118, 119;
   death, 120, 132

 Probus, 4, 17

 Prudentius, 354

 Purpurius, Bishop of Limata, 161

          R

 Roman Empire, threatened fall in third century, 1 _ff._;
   turn of fortune, 3;
   under Diocletian, 5 _ff._, 330;
   divided into twelve dioceses, 10, 331;
   prosperity, 11;
   population, 12;
   shared by Constantine and Licinius, 120;
   invaded by Goths and Sarmatæ, 123, 124;
   united, 133;
   peace, 252;
   war with Goths and Sarmatæ, 252;
   reorganisation under Constantine, 330 _ff._;
   disintegration, 342 _ff._

 Rome, 57, 258

 Rome, Council of, 176

 Ruricius Pompeianus, holds Verona, 83;
   killed, 85

          S

 Sabinus, præfect, 140, 143

 St. Irene, Church of, description of, 274, 275

 St. Sophia, Church of, 274

 St. Stephen, Church of, 278

 Sapor, king of Persia, relations with Constantine, 254-256

 Sarmatæ, invade Roman Empire, 123;
   turn to Constantine for help, 253

 Saturninus, speech of, 3

 Secundus, Bishop of Tigisis, president of synod at Cirta, 161, 162, 165

 Secundus of Ptolemais, Bishop, friend of Arius, 196

 Senate, 335, 336

 Seneca, quoted, 350

 Senecio, 120

 Severus, Emperor, becomes Cæsar, 40, 56, 57;
   nominated by Galerius, 41, 59;
   domain, 56;
   besieges Rome, 59;
   besieged by Maximian and Maxentius, 59-60;
   is given choice of death, 72

 Simon Stylites, 347

 Sirmium, capital of Galerius, 8

 Slavery, 342

 Socrates, quoted, 216, 220, 287, 288, 298, 299

 Sopater, pagan philosopher, in favour with Constantine, 324

 Sotades of Crete, pagan poet, 204

 Sozomen, quoted, 216

 Stanley, Dean, _History of the Eastern Church_, quoted, 226

 Sylvanus, Bishop, 162

 Sylvester, Bishop of Rome, sends representatives to Council of Arles,
    175;
   letter to, from Council of Arles, 176, 177;
   absent from Council of Nicæa, 212, 213;
   baptises Constantine, 248;
   legends concerning Constantine and, 248, 249

          T

 Tacitus, rule of, 4;
   on childless life, 349

 Taxation, 337-342

 Temporal Power, legend of origin, 248, 249

 Terminalia, Festival of, 24

 Tertullian and his doctrine, 351

 Theban Legion, legend of its massacre, 14, 15

 Theodora, wife of Constantius Chlorus, 44

 Theodoretus, rival of Arius, 190;
   on the Council of Nicæa, 220, 223

 Theodosius II., rebuilds walls of Constantinople, 266;
   attitude toward recluses, 348

 Theodotus of Ancyra, 30

 Theognis of Nicæa, and Nicene Creed, 230, 231;
   exiled, 231;
   recalled, 287, 288

 Theonas, Bishop of Marmorica, friend of Arius, 196

 Theotecnus, Governor of Antioch, 142;
   invented new deity, 145

 Thessalonica, naval harbour, 127

 Tiridates, ruler of Armenia, 6

 Tithe lands, 1

 Trinitarians _vs._ Arians, 221, 223-226

 Twelfth Legion, soldiers of, martyrs, 156

 Tyre, Council of, trial of Athanasius, 293-295

          U

 Urbanus, Governor of Palestine, 136

          V

 Valens, appointed Cæsar, 122;
   recalls recluses from the desert, 348

 Valentinianus, the Curator, 161

 Valeria, daughter of Diocletian, a Christian, 13;
   widow of Galerius, 118;
   Maximin proposes marriage to, 118;
   exiled, 119

 Valerian, Emperor, taken prisoner, 2;
   persecution of the Christians, 13

 Victor of Russicas, 161

          Z

 Zosimus on Constantine’s character, 303

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                           Transcriber’s Note

Lapses of punctuation in the Index have been resolved without further
notice.

Where possible, Greek passages have been checked against Winkelmann's
edition at http://khazarzar.skeptik.net/books/eusebius/vc/gr/index.htm#.

As noted below, a typesetting error in the footnotes, over a few pages,
resulted in the Greek ‘καὶ’ as ‘κὰι’.

The Greek passage in footnote #f136# has been corrected to eliminate a
wide spacing, supplying the first two characters of ‘[πρ]έποντας’ (_De
Vit. Const._, iv., 62.)

The final two words of a Greek passage (‘ἐννοεῖ δῆτα ὁποῖον, δέοι θέον
ἐπιγράψασθαι βοηθὸν’) have been reversed, but are retained.

Other errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected,
and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the
original or to the page, (renumbered) note, and line.

 8.10        A long line of fortresses was            Inserted.
             estab[l]ished
 11.6        since the days of the Antonines[,/.]     Replaced.
 19.9        from [h/H]is lofty throne                Replaced for
                                                        consistency.
 21.21       a menace to the established              Replaced.
             authorities[,/.]
 33.1        culpable w[ake/eak]ness.                 Transposed.
 45.23       high-spir[i]ted                          Inserted.
 52.16       [“]thanks to Maximian,                   Added.
 110.25      ἐστι θειότης κ[ὰι\αὶ] οὐρανίου πράγματος Replaced.
 130.n64.1   τὸ σωτήριον κ[ὰι\αὶ] ζωοποιὸν            Replaced.
 130.n64.2   ὥσπερ τι φόβητρον κ[ὰι\αὶ] κακῶν         Replaced.
             ἀμυντήριον.
 148.n70.1   Εὐσεβεῖς τε κ[ὰι\αὶ] μόνους θεοσεβεῖς    Replaced.
 216.n95.1   πίστει κ[ὰι\αὶ] καλοῖς ἔργοις            Replaced.
             φυλαττομένην.
 227.15      of her debt to the wise.[”]              Added.
 232.n100.1  τίμιον εἵναι κ[ὰι\αὶ] τὴν κόιτην         Replaced.
             κ[ὰι\αὶ] αὐτὸν
 233.n102.1  κλίμακα κ[ὰι/αὶ] μόνος ἀνάβηθι εἰς τὸν   Replaced.
             οὐρανόν
 234.n103.1  κ[ὰι/αὶ] σπάνιος αὖ τῆς ἀληθείας φίλος.  Replaced.
 274.14      the world-renow[n]ed St. Sophia          Inserted.
 307.12      adding to their dignity.[”]              Added.
 313.136.1   θεσμὸυς ἤδη βίου θεῷ [πρ]έποντας         Inserted.
 359.33      Christian marty[r]s                      Inserted.