Dominus

by Steven Saylor

  He seemed to expect a response. Zenobius was flummoxed for a moment, then managed to say, “Yes, I read that passage in Deaths of the Persecutors, about the chi-rho symbol.” Lactantius smiled, pleased, like all authors, by a knowledgeable reference to his work. He and the emperor both looked at Zenobius, as if expecting more. “I know only a little about Jesus, I must admit,” said Zenobius, speaking slowly, “but I thought his doctrine was one of peace and brotherly love—hardly warlike. Does he not admonish his followers to turn the other cheek when struck by an enemy?”

  Constantine gave Lactantius a penetrating look. “By that reasoning, no emperor could ever become a Christian. The emperor can never ignore threats or insults to himself, or to his empire. He must be free to practice violence whenever necessary. What do you say, Lactantius? Would a Christian emperor need to be a pacifist to follow Christ? No doubt you’ve addressed the question in one of your long—very long—treatises, but you know my ‘barracks Latin’ is inadequate to follow the more abstruse passages.”

  “The answer is not abstruse at all, Dominus,” said Lactantius. “The emperor, just like every other mortal, has a role to play in God’s creation. As do the emperor’s soldiers. Even the persecutors, in their own way, were instruments of the Divine Will, for they produced martyrs to serve as examples of courage and righteousness to the rest of us.”

  “Still, an emblem of Jesus on a shield taken into a bloody battle does seem rather out of place, does it not?” asked Kaeso. He sounded genuinely curious.

  “Not at all,” said Lactantius. “Christians make excellent soldiers. They make even better soldiers when they carry into battle the emblem of their Savior. This is nothing new. It has been so for generations. Think of the legion made entirely of Christians who fought under Marcus Aurelius. Cornered by the barbarians, worn down by heat, desperate with thirst, they prayed to God to save them. God answered their prayers with the famous Rain Miracle. A gentle shower cooled and quenched the thirst of the Romans, but when it rained upon the enemy it became a downpour that drowned them and swept them away, like Pharaoh’s soldiers when they dared to pursue Moses. With that mighty rain came thunder, which was the voice of God. In remembrance, the Christians took the name ‘Thundering Legion.’”

  Zenobius bit his tongue, but Kaeso unabashedly spoke up. “I’m pretty sure it was Augustus, long before the Rain Miracle, who created the legion with a thunderbolt on their shields—Twelfth Legion Thunderbolt. I could be wrong about that. But we Pinarii do know a bit about the Rain Miracle, because one of our ancestors witnessed it with his own eyes, and described it to another Pinarius who conceived the images you see on the Column of Marcus. It was Harnouphis the Egyptian who called upon Mercury, and Mercury who brought about the miracle. So I’m pretty sure the Rain Miracle had nothing to do with Christians, and Christians had nothing to do with the Rain Miracle.”

  “Wrong again!” said Constantine, not in the least offended. He was glad, in fact, for the opportunity to reveal an exciting discovery. “Here in Rome, Lactantius has located a very remarkable document that offers proof of his version of events—a letter about the Rain Miracle submitted by Marcus Aurelius himself to the Senate.”

  Lactantius nodded. “Its existence has been known for a long time, but the document simply could not be found. It was presumed to have been destroyed by insects or fire, like so many documents from olden days. Upon our arrival in Rome, our Dominus gave me full access to the senatorial archives—a rare privilege for a mere scholar such as myself—and after much searching, at long last I located it. It is on my person right now—or rather, a copy of it, made by my own hand. The original scroll is too brittle and fragile to leave the archives.”

  He pulled a slender scroll from a leather sleeve elaborately decorated with gems, pearls, and gold filigree. “Here, young man, you can read it for yourself.”

  “Yes, read it aloud,” said Constantine.

  Kaeso took the scroll. With his father peering over his shoulder, he read the text aloud.

  “From the Emperor Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Germanicus, Parthicus, Sarmaticus, to the Senate and to the People of Rome, greetings. Previously I have explained to you my grand design, and by what means I gained ground on the Germans, with much labor and suffering, with the consequence that I found myself surrounded by the enemy in great numbers, the scouts of our general Pompeianus calculating them to number 977,000 men.

  “Having examined my own position with respect to this army of barbarians, which vastly outnumbered us, I betook myself to pray to the gods of my country. But being disregarded by them, I summoned those among us who go by the name of Christians. For having previously made inquiry, I had discovered a great number of these men among us, and previously I had railed against them, which was a grave error—for I was soon to learn of their power.

  “As I watched, the Christians made preparation for the battle, but not by honing their weapons nor blowing horns. Instead they cast themselves on the ground, and prayed not only for me, but also for the whole army, that we might be delivered from thirst and famine. For five days we had been without fresh water, for we were in the heart of Germany, a barren land with few rivers and little rain. But after the Christians cast themselves on the ground and prayed to their god (a god of whom I was ignorant), water poured from heaven. Upon us it was a gentle and refreshingly cool rain, but upon the enemies of Rome it became a hail of fire.

  “Immediately I recognized the presence of something divine at work. Clearly, those whom we supposed to be atheists have on their side a god unconquerable and indestructible. Therefore, let us pardon all the Christians among us, lest they pray for and obtain such a weapon against ourselves. And if anyone be accused as a Christian, and acknowledges that he is one, let the governor of the province neither force him to retract his faith nor put him in prison, but release him. And let the man who accuses him be burned alive. And I desire that these things be confirmed by a decree of the Senate. And I command that this my edict be published in the Forum of Trajan, in order that it may be read by all. The prefect Vitrasius Pollio will see that it is transmitted to all the provinces round about, and that no one be hindered from obtaining a copy of the document I now publish.”

  Kaeso finished reading and lowered the scroll. He wrinkled his brow and looked at his father.

  Zenobius grimaced. He would gladly have bit through his tongue rather than speak, but the look on his son’s face demanded that he say something. Either the lore passed down by generations of Pinarii was completely mistaken, or the letter was a fraud.”But, Dominus,” he said, clearing his throat, “you realize this can’t possibly be … there’s simply no way that the Divine Marcus would have used this kind of … or that he would ever have ordered men burned alive … I mean to say, it has to be … it must be a…”

  “A revelation?” said Constantine. “Is that what you’re trying to say, Senator? Because that’s precisely what it is—a wondrous revelation! Who knows what other remarkable documents Lactantius may yet discover, looking through those moldering, musty archives? Evidence for all the wrong-headed persecutions of Christians over the years and the wickedness of the persecutors, evidence of miracles performed by Christian martyrs, and who knows what else?”

  “Who … indeed?” said Zenobius quietly.

  Lactantius took back the scroll, rolled it up, and slipped it back into the exquisitely decorated sleeve. “But to address your question regarding the fitness of Christian soldiers: we Christians are as loyal to the emperor and the empire as anyone else. We accept our responsibility to protect the empire against the adversaries sent by the Devil.”

  “The Devil?” asked Kaeso.

  “He is the infernal king of wickedness, the great liar, the enemy of mankind’s salvation. It is he who sends barbarians against us, and it was the Devil who empowered the wicked emperors who persecuted us.”

  “But … why did your god permit this Devil to do so?” asked Kaeso. “If he is so powerful, why does he not va
nquish this enemy once and for all, and be done with him?”

  “God himself provided this adversary for us.”

  “Your god created his own enemy?”

  “How else are we mortals to gain moral strength, unless we are tried and tested? When the Devil sends enemies against us, whether barbarians from without or insurrectionists from within, Christians must submit to military service, indeed, must be willing to shed the last drop of blood. What does their physical suffering on this earth matter, when they shall be rewarded with eternal bliss in Heaven? We follow the orders of the emperor, but God is our ultimate commander. Amazing as it might seem, the emperors and the empire of Rome have been instruments of his will all along. With the final demise of the persecutors, and with power in the hands of divinely inspired men like Constantine and Licinius, the Roman Empire is now ready to assume a new role in the history of mankind.”

  Constantine put a hand on Zenobius’s shoulder, drew him aside, and spoke in his ear. “Don’t you see? When Lactantius puts it all together like that, everything makes sense. There really is only one Divine Power, whatever name mortals give it. All my many victories on the battlefield did not come about by accident. The visions I’ve seen, the voices I’ve heard, all come from the same source.”

  “But … it was a vision of Apollo you saw in Gaul—or so you once told me.”

  “Did I? There was a statue of Apollo in that temple, to be sure. But the light worked upon it in a wondrous way, transforming it. I begin to think it must have been Jesus I saw that day. And the winged figure that joined us, which I took to be Victory—that might very well have been an angel, such as the Christians speak of. And before the battle for Rome, when I dreamed of the chi-rho emblem—well, what does it matter how it came into my head? Perhaps I did see it on a map, because I was meant to see it, and then dream of it. You say chi-rho stands for chrestos. Lactantius says it stands for Christ. But aren’t those two words interchangeable, both expressions of the goodness of the Divine Will? And did I not conquer by using that emblem? That’s what matters, Senator Pinarius. Results! I know it all sounds very spiritual, but this new paradigm is also very, very practical.”

  “Practical, Dominus?”

  “Perhaps the Christians don’t have everything exactly right—they do seem always to be squabbling among themselves—but I think they can be made to reach a consensus. And once that happens, the basic idea is sound. Do you see? One empire, one people, one god. Everyone pulling together toward a single purpose, decided by their emperor, who shall be inspired by the Christian god. Everyone sharing the same morals and following the same rules, decided by the same rule book, which the Christians shall put together—likewise inspired by their god, of course. Everyone believing the same thing—again, we shall put it in writing. The simpler the rules, the morals, and the beliefs, the better, so that even a cowherd can understand. Everything will be so much easier for everyone—not least the emperor! Once it’s all settled, people will wonder how we ever got along before.”

  “You seem to speak of a single emperor, Dominus. Are you forgetting your colleague, Licinius?”

  “Oh no, I assure you, I am not forgetting my dear brother-in-law.” Two years had passed since Licinius married Constantine’s half sister. It occurred to Zenobius that an in-law of Constantine was a dangerous thing to be.

  Constantine gave him a sharp look. “What are you thinking now, Senator? You seem always to be thinking. You’re very astute. So is that son of yours. You do excellent work. But you really must leave religion to those who know what they’re talking about, men like Lactantius. As I say: one god, one empire, one emperor. You stick to re-carving the statues. Leave it to others to remake the world.”

  A.D. 326

  Ten years had passed since the Decennalia. Constantine was returning once more to Rome, this time to mark the celebration of his Vicennalia, twenty years as emperor.

  He was no longer one emperor among four, or even two, having defeated his brother-in-law Licinius, Augustus of the East, in a series of titanic battles. The two of them had mustered the military might of the entire Roman world, marshaling the largest armies to be seen in two hundred years, the likes of which would not be seen again for a thousand years to come.

  Licinius had finally been captured and eventually put to death by hanging, meeting the same wretched fate as Maximian. For the first time in forty years, the entire Roman world was ruled by a single man.

  Returning to Rome as part of the imperial retinue was Senator Marcus Pinarius Zenobius, who a few years previously had been summoned, along with a great many other architects, builders, and artists from across the empire, to join Constantine in the East, there to begin work on a project of unprecedented ambition—the creation of a new city virtually from scratch, grand enough to rival Rome.

  The site chosen by Constantine was the ancient town of Byzantium. Half a century had passed since renegade soldiers during the reign of Gallienus massacred the entire population. Despite its strategic location, the town had remained largely abandoned. At a critical point in the war, Licinius took refuge there. Laying siege to the crumbling walls of Byzantium, Constantine had seen firsthand just how strategic was its location.

  The site had been razed. All that remained of Byzantium vanished from the earth—leaving an ideal spot for Constantine to create a completely new city, to be laid out, decorated, fortified, populated, and renamed exactly to his liking.

  The work had only just begun. First, the site had to be carefully measured and mapped. Then meticulously detailed plans were drawn. Streets were still being laid out and paved, harbors dredged, piers and moorings built. The first buildings were under construction. Because the Pinarii’s projects in Rome had pleased the emperor, Zenobius had been summoned to the new city to do his part. As long as his work continued to please Constantine, he would have secure employment for years to come. His fortunes were secure, but his duties at Byzantium were likely to keep him away from Rome for years to come.

  Already profoundly homesick, missing his wife and son and elderly father, he had convinced the emperor to include him in the imperial retinue headed for Rome to celebrate the Vicennalia.

  * * *

  Rumors concerning the new city swept back and forth across the empire. It was said that the city was to have its own senate, equal in stature to the Roman Senate, with members handpicked by the emperor and consisting entirely of Christians; that the city would have no temples honoring the gods, but instead would be full of Christian churches; that Constantine was carrying out a systematic confiscation of temple treasuries all over the East, carting off statues and obelisks and paintings to decorate his new city or to sell, and melting down priceless artworks of gold and silver to mint coins to pay for all the new construction. Thus far, none of Rome’s treasures had been touched.

  Some said Constantine would call the city New Rome, or Second Rome, but it seemed most likely that he intended to name it after himself: Constantinople. The frenzy of activity focused on the new city caused considerable anxiety in Rome. What would become of old Rome when “New Rome” was built?

  Since Constantine had last been to Rome, there had been changes all over the empire, many of them due to the influence of his Christian advisers, like the late Lactantius and the emperor’s favorite historian, Eusebius. Few people had realized just how much the traditional religion relied on the state’s funding and support; for countless generations, the situation had been taken completely for granted by all concerned. Nor had anyone foreseen just how quickly and radically the status quo could change when the state shifted its financial support entirely to the Christians.

  In a startling turnabout, the Edict of Milan with its policy of toleration had now come to protect followers of the old religion. They were free to believe whatever they wanted, and they were allowed, if they could afford it, to assume ownership and maintenance of shrines and temples no longer supported by the state. Since many of the richest citizens had abruptly converted to Ch
ristianity, and hardly anyone else could afford such expenses, in short order the new owners of the temples were forced to sell off treasures accumulated over centuries, or even to shut their temples altogether.

  The Edict of Milan forbade the use of violence to compel anyone to convert to Christianity, but numerous religious activities were nonetheless restricted or banned outright. New edicts forbade the erection of new cult statues, the consultation of oracles (“summoning demons,” as the Christians called it), or divination of any sort, which was now considered black magic. Even animal sacrifice to the gods, the central event of so many ceremonies and festivals, was forbidden. Penalties were severe. The ancient practice of Etruscan haruspicy—reading entrails—long a part of marriage and other family ceremonies, now carried a penalty of death by fire. Priests were stripped of longstanding, often hereditary, privileges and publicly humiliated. It was ordered that the doors of temples must be left open at all times, so that Christians could monitor the activities within, to make sure no magic or other outlawed activity was taking place. Some ancient rituals were deemed intrinsically obscene, which led to crackdowns on behavior considered licentious in temples of “the demon Venus” and elsewhere.

  Constantine, who had once declared that kidnappers should be thrown to wild beasts in the arena or sent to gladiator schools to be cut down by practiced fighters, had now pronounced a ban on gladiator games. In cities all over the empire, Constantine’s magistrates and governors were pressuring local elites to shift their traditional support from arena spectacles to chariot races. Plans for the emperor’s new city included no amphitheater, but did set land aside for a gigantic hippodrome, the Greek equivalent of what in Rome was called the Circus Maximus.