A STATUE OF THE RECENTLY deceased Helena was erected in Constantinople when the city was dedicated on May 11, 330; three years earlier her hometown of Drepanum in what is now Turkey had been renamed in her honor when, in her early sixties, she had undertaken an important mission on behalf of her son.1 Helena’s role, in which Eutropia, Constantine’s mother-in-law, briefly joined her, underscored the problem that Constantine faced after the tragedies of 326. Even though there was now no imperial prince of the right age and no empress to carry the dynastic banner, the imperial family needed to show its concern for its subjects across the entire empire. Demonstrations of concern required personal appearances.
Helena was experienced in the ways of the court and she had evidently become a devout Christian. This was important in the aftermath of the Council of Nicaea, and her proposed journey into the heart of the lands that had supported Arius would reaffirm the concern of the imperial house for the unity of the Christian community. In making this appearance, she could not, and would not, be seen as an agent of doctrinal orthodoxy; rather, she would be responding to requests from the bishop of Jerusalem that Constantine create a new Holy Land for all Christians, to complement his new capital for all Romans. Palestine—removed from the areas that still clung to the Classical past, areas like Athens or the Troad which were virtual museums of pagan antiquity—was an appropriate choice: it was home to scriptural narratives, and places of worship constructed there would not threaten the great shrines of the Greco-Roman past or be seen to conflict with them. And this would conform with the message trumpeted by people like Optatianus, some of whose poems celebrated Christ, as well as Constantine’s devotion to the Highest God.2
One thing that Constantine had tended to avoid was open insult to the temples of the gods. Three on the acropolis of Byzantium were still open on Constantinople’s inauguration day—which may have reassured the pagans not only in Constantine’s entourage but those who were just visiting the city. In Jerusalem, however, he had given permission to bishop Macarius to destroy a temple of Aphrodite that had evidently been constructed over a cave identified as Christ’s tomb.3 Constantine would do the same thing in regard to another site, Mamre, where three angels allegedly visited Abraham. Here too there was a pagan shrine, and here too the shrine would be destroyed to allow the “true” historical significance of the site to be restored. Constantine’s language in this case represents the essence of his policy: “In these circumstances it is right, so it seems to me, that by our provision this site should be kept clear of every defilement and restored to its ancient holy state, so that no other activity goes on there except the performance of the cult appropriate to God the Almighty, our savior and the Lord of the Universe.”4
The action that Constantine took at Jerusalem provided a model for other initiatives involving individual temples that Eusebius attempted later to describe as reflecting an imperial policy of eradicating pagan worship. Eusebius says the emperor destroyed three temples in the east: one was to Asclepius at Aegeae; two were temples of Aphrodite—one at Aphaca and the other at Heliopolis (roughly thirty miles apart in what is now Lebanon).5 The temple at Aegeae was famous both as an oracular site and as a home to the first-century AD holy-man Apollonius of Tyana, whose supporters had claimed that he was taken up into heaven after a career of wonder working on earth.6 The rites at both temples of Aphrodite included sacred prostitution, the grounds on which Constantine had them demolished.
Action against individual temples was nothing new, especially those thought to threaten social cohesion. There is no reason to think that the destruction of any of these shrines was an act inspired solely by Christian doctrine. Eusebius’ statement in recounting the destruction of Aphaca, that Constantine “had observed these things himself with imperial forethought,” echoes the language of an imperial rescript, and the “personal letter” Eusebius says Constantine sent to Heliopolis, urging the people to give up their “atrocious habits,” is likewise pretty clearly a reference to a specific request. Similarly his suppression of an Egyptian priesthood on the grounds of immorality owes more to imperial tradition than to Christian doctrine, and as in the case of Heliopolis, it is his response to a specific complaint. The most serious “pagan scandal” at Constantinople of which record has survived appears to have been a one-time event. Here a philosopher named Sopater, whom Constantine had invited to the capital, tried to harness the winds, using magic, so that the grain fleet would not reach the city. Both using magic and interfering with the grain were treasonable, so it’s hardly surprising that he was executed.7
Back in Jerusalem, once the temple that stood on top of the tomb of Jesus was destroyed, the spot could be excavated. Eusebius notes: “Thus after its descent into darkness it came forth again to the light and enabled those who came as visitors to see plainly the story of the wonders wrought there, testifying by facts louder than any voice to the resurrection of the Savior.”8 Constantine’s letter to Macarius instructing him to build reflects his evolving conception of the way the church and the court could work together, offering all the material support that Macarius needed to realize his vision since “it is right that the world’s most miraculous place should be worthily embellished.”
The church that was built was no ordinary one, either in size or design, for within its courtyard it contained both the alleged hill of Golgotha and the tomb (see figure 31.1).9 It is also worth noting that it was the only building begun before Helena’s arrival, perhaps because the site was already known and had been the object of controversy. The church itself, the ancestor of the modern Church of the Holy Sepulchre, stood into the eleventh century, when an angry caliph destroyed it. The present church, which stands on the same site, is largely the work of the crusader kingdom in the twelfth century.
When Helena arrived, she was to initiate work on two more churches connected with the life cycle of Christ: one at Bethlehem, to mark his birthplace; the other on the Mount of Olives, to mark the place of his ascension. Work seems to have proceeded more slowly at these sites, for although both were consecrated in Helena’s presence, neither may have been completed before Constantine died in 337.10
Constantine’s new Holy Land gave Christians a physical center for their history, but in a quite particular way. Whereas pagan shrines were eliminated so as not to conflict with Christian history, a Christian history centered in Palestine did not conflict with those of other centers of Mediterranean civilization. They might be thought to conflict with Jewish history, however, especially in the appropriation of Mamre (although in a sense Mamre had already been lost as a Jewish site). Since the reign of Hadrian, Jerusalem had been the Roman colonia of Aelia Capitolina and as such detached from its purely Jewish history. The new church was no more a challenge than the old shrine, so the status quo was maintained. There is no evidence that Constantine sought to appropriate any other biblical sites for purely Christian purposes.
FIGURE 31.1
The original Church of the Holy Sepulcher, built on the orders of Constantine, was destroyed in the Middle Ages. Its descendant was built on the same site in the twelfth century. The form of Constantine’s church appears on the image from the spectacular mosaic map of the Holy land discovered at Madaba in Jordan. Source: ©Shutterstock.
His attitude to the vast majority of Jewish sites in Palestine is significant in light of the harsh language used of Judaism in the ruling about Easter at the Council of Nicaea. The record of his decisions on issues connected with Judaism suggests that, while hardly friendly, he was also unwilling to end long-established practices. We also have to bear in mind that Judaism had a long and vexed history with Rome well before Constantine took the throne. Jews might see Roman practice as a threat to their religious traditions, while Romans were deeply suspicious of a people who had rebelled three times between the 60s and 130s AD; these rebellions had led to ghastly reprisals by Vespasian and Hadrian, including, most famously, the destruction of the temple at Jerusalem in AD 70. Also—and this was a major factor in sparking the revolt of the 130s—the Romans were culturally hostile to circumcision, which they viewed as a form of castration and Hadrian had banned.
After the revolt of the 130s, Roman attitudes toward Jewish practice ameliorated somewhat: Antoninus Pius (reigned 138–161) modified Hadrian’s ban on circumcision so that fathers could circumcise their sons; and Jews were exempted from performing actions in the course of civic liturgies that violated the tenets of their faith.11 In Judea, it appears that the Jewish patriarch had the authority to act as a judge in civil actions that pitted Jews against each other, or in matters of religious law.12 Roman governors could, and did, act in support of the decisions of these courts. Additionally, Jewish priests were granted exemptions from all civic liturgies, and the patriarch was entitled to receive an annual tax from the Jewish communities that had spread throughout the Mediterranean world in the previous several centuries.13
The one area where the imperial government imposed restrictions on the practice of Judaism was in the conversion of non-Jews. A full convert to Judaism would have to be circumcised, and this ban remained in place, possibly leading to the growth of the class of Theosebeis (god-fearers) within the synagogue. Indeed, it was in the late third century that the jurist Paul wrote: “Roman citizens who allow themselves or their slaves to be circumcised according to the Jewish rite shall, with their property being confiscated, be relegated to an island in perpetuity. The doctors will endure capital punishment. If Jews circumcise slaves bought from another nation, they will either be deported or executed.”14
Constantine’s record in dealing with the Jewish community is mixed, but not out of keeping with standard imperial practice. His first statement, in a rescript to the city council at Cologne, simply states that Jews who were previously exempt from civic munera can now be assigned them. He adds: “So that something may be left to them of the solace of the previous rule, we extend to two or three persons the privilege of not being summoned by any nomination,” indicating that the Jews in question were probably priestly officials. In so doing he appears to be treating these men as teachers and according them the same sort of exemptions that were afforded other teachers. In 330 he is concerned with a different group—specifically, the leaders of the Jewish community in Palestine (whose noses might be thought to be somewhat out of joint after Helena’s visit)—writing to Ablabius that its most important leaders should have immunity from personal and public munera, and that those who were, at the time of his writing, decurions, should not be assigned as escorts since they should not be forced to go on journeys. Those who were not already decurions should not be forced to take up that status. A year later he wrote that a number of leaders in synagogues should receive exemption from munera corporalia (services requiring physical labor). The dates of these two texts are significant in light of a document he sent to Evagrius in 329 stating that “the Jews, their elders and their patriarchs” should know that if, after the publication of this law, they should attack a person who had “fled their feral sect and turned to the worship of God” they will be burned at the stake and that if a person “should join their nefarious sect from the public and join in their associations at large, he will sustain the just penalty along with them.”15
The language of Evagrius’ text resembles that in the discussion of Easter at the Council of Nicaea, but it is also similar to the language Constantine used in writing to other Christians—including the Donatists and Arius (as well as others whose behavior he disliked, such as the unfortunate nurses of girls involved in abductions). Six years later he wrote to Felix that if a Jew purchased and circumcised a Christian slave, the slave would be freed. At the same time “if any Jew should unlock for himself the door of eternal life and deliver himself to the worshippers and choose to be a Christian,” none of his fellow Jews are to molest him in any way, and if they do, they may be punished. It is Constantine’s hope that “on account of the love of the divine providence we trust that such a person will be safe in the whole Roman world and that due reverence for ourselves will be maintained.”16 There is little that can be attributed to Constantine’s Christianity, certainly nothing that is not equally attributable to his being a Roman magistrate. The roots of modern anti-Semitism and the holocaust do not, despite what some might think, rest here with Constantine; if one insists on seeking (no matter how improbable that search is) for the sources of modern evil in the ancient world, that search might more easily take one to Hadrian or Vespasian—emperors who slaughtered the Jewish population of Palestine in response to revolts brought about through Roman misgovernment—than to Constantine. In either case, it is troubling to think that every bad idea, careless statement, outburst of passion, or simple rhetorical excess of 2,000 years ago shapes behavior in the modern world. To take such a line is to seek to exculpate modern thinkers and modern politicians for grotesque deeds of their own, and that is fundamentally an absurd notion. It would not be until the end of the fourth century that the imperial government would surrender to the bigotry of some bishops (Ambrose of Milan takes pride of place in this company) in turning a blind eye to persecution of Jewish communities by Christians. At that time no one appealed to the example of Constantine, and for the very good reason that there was nothing there to which they might appeal.
In the case of the Jews, as with the pagans, Constantine didn’t appear inclined to take coercive action unless it was in response to a specific complaint. He learned from Diocletian the lesson that state-generated acts of persecution were pointless. His actions in Palestine revealed instead his growing tendency to make life easier for Christians, but to do so within the framework of existing imperial practice. There may be no better example of the extension of this policy to other contexts than in the way he handled an appeal made by a place called Orcistus in central Turkey. At some point in the past, Orcistus had been a city; more recently it had been demoted to the rank of village and attached to the city of Nacolea. The Orcistians appealed to Constantine, through Ablabius, to restore its civic status, pointing to the many fine features of their city: it was at a crossroads, it had a forum, it had terrific bathing facilities drawing on fresh-water springs, it had watermills and a public post station. Constantine agreed that Orcistus should become a city once more, adding that “in addition to all these things it is a sort of blessing that all who live there say that they are followers of the most sacred religion.” These last few words may be Ablabius’ embellishment, but the comment sums up the essential point: people who behave decently can expect good things no matter who they are, but it would be very much appreciated if they would embrace the emperor’s “most sacred religion.”17
An important counterpoint to the Orcistus dossier is found in a request from the town of Hispellum in Italy that its priest no longer have to travel to Volsinii every year to celebrate a festival in honor of the emperor. If their wish was granted, the city said, they would build a new temple “of magnificent workmanship” in honor of Constantine’s family; they pointed out that Hispellum was conveniently located on a major road (the Flaminian Way)—implying a distinction from Volsinii (modern Bolsena), which was reachable only via steep and nearly impassable mountains. In those days this was not an entirely unfair statement for people coming from Hispellum’s direction.
Constantine granted the request, renaming the city in honor of his youngest son, Constans (who was designated to rule the region in the future). He was pleased that they and the people of Volsinii should continue to celebrate gladiatorial games. He offered but one restriction: “that no temple dedicated in our name shall be defiled by the deceptions of any contagious and unreasonable religious belief.” That’s to say that there was to be no animal sacrifice. He also expressed pleasure that his decisions would allow old custom to stay intact while the people of Hispellum could rejoice in having gained something new, and in enhancing the empire with a splendid new building and a festival. Although it is likely that their request got no closer to Constantine than the office of the praetorian prefect, Papius Pacatianus, the author of this response, sought to represent the emperor’s thoughts in a way that the he felt was reasonable.18
Constantine’s point in dealing with cities was that Christianity was entirely compatible with imperial government. What was not compatible was doctrinal strife among Christians. Sometimes his intervention against specific Christian bishops fit the pattern of his interventions against individual pagan temples, suggesting that in his view, common decency trumped claims to religious affinity.
Christians who were willing to abide by the settlement reached at Nicaea and keep the peace within the community had little to fear from him and some reason to expect that good things would come their way. So it was that a mere two years after Nicaea, both Arius and Eusebius of Nicomedia were reconciled to Constantine (people later claimed that Eusebius wormed his way back into power through the favor of the emperor’s half-sister Constantia). It was certainly true that while Constantine over time restricted the scope of ordinary clerics, he moved toward increasing the influence of bishops (in keeping with his general tendency to strengthen the hands of those closest to himself). The strongest statement of his faith in the good character of bishops is to be found in a long document that he dispatched to Ablabius in 333, ordering that the opinions of bishops should be binding—there could be no appeal against them—and that the prefect should enforce those decisions. An individual could appeal to a bishop’s court at any time during a hearing in a secular court, since the “authority of sacred religion” can investigate cases more fully, and statements of bishops must be accepted as true.19
Given the enormous potential power hereby delivered to bishops, it is little wonder that Constantine took very harsh action against those who didn’t live up to his expectations. This may be one reason three powerful bishops who had attended the Council of Nicaea on the anti-Arian side (one in a junior role) soon found themselves in deep trouble with their emperor. These were Eustathius of Antioch, Marcellus of Ancyra, and Athanasius of Alexandria.
Eustathius’ ally, Athanasius, claimed that Eustathius, falsely accused of rudeness to Helena while she was on her way to Palestine, was traduced by “those around Eusebius (of Nicomedia).” Athanasius appears to have been wrong on both counts. It is entirely probable that Eustathius was exiled before Eusebius returned to power, and quite possibly before Helena arrived in Palestine, and that the reason for his removal was personal misconduct.20 A church council summoned to investigate Eustathius on charges of sexual immorality convicted him of having fathered a child out of wedlock.21
Eusebius of Nicomedia, as Athanasius’ complaints make plain, and even Arius himself were doing rather better. The two men appeared at an ecclesiastical council at Nicomedia where Eusebius admitted his faults and Arius recanted his heresy. Given that Constantine had earlier written to Arius telling him that he had been subverted by the Devil and that his heresy had been predicted ages before by the Erythraean Sibyl, this signals either a remarkable change of heart or an indication that even Constantine’s harshest rhetoric masked an ability to compromise—or both.22
The different issues confronting Athanasius and Marcellus during the next decade culminated in two very different outcomes: Marcellus was removed for entirely theological reasons, while Athanasius caused his own removal by his violent conduct. In Marcellus’ case the eliminating agent was an ecclesiastical council held in conjunction with the celebration of the thirtieth anniversary of Constantine’s accession. Marcellus was accused of teaching two things that Constantine did not believe—that Christ’s existence began with Mary and that the world would end. In his speech before Nicaea, Constantine had made it abundantly clear that Christ’s existence was eternal, as was his kingdom (which the emperor by now seemed to associate rather closely with his own, making Marcellus’ statement potentially treasonable). Marcellus actually did hold both these beliefs and was sent to live in Illyricum.23
The case of Athanasius, a far more powerful bishop, was more complex, though here too unwillingness to think as the emperor thought seems to have been at the heart of the problem. The trouble began on the very first day of Athanasius’ tenure as bishop. It is quite likely that he was below the customary age for a bishop, and it certainly seems to have been the case that local custom did not condone the consecration of a bishop behind the locked doors of a church (Athanasius was consecrated in this way). Athanasius’ consecration, at which only seven bishops were present, preempted a council, including fifty-four bishops from other parts of Egypt, evidently organized with the aim of selecting a candidate who might unite the church.24
Perceiving the need to strengthen his position, Athanasius took himself off to the desert, where increasing numbers of Christians were taking up residence as monks in more or less organized groups.25 His desire to draw these groups into his entourage was spurred by his dislike for the Meletian faction, which set him at odds with the decrees of Nicaea. In 330, Athanasius withdrew from Alexandria, evidently to avoid assisting some Meletians with their tax obligations. He returned to the city and then set out on a journey through the Mareotis, a region of the Nile delta, where one of his colleagues assaulted a priest named Ischyras on the grounds that he was a heretic, smashing a chalice and overturning an altar.26
At the heart of it all was the fact that Athanasius refused to compromise with his rivals, and this Constantine took very seriously, even after those rivals disgraced themselves on more than one occasion by bringing patently false charges against him: in 334, for instance, Athanasius proved, before the council that had assembled to try him, that a man he was accused of having murdered was alive.27 But by 335 the emperor’s patience was finally at an end, and after a church council condemned Athanasius, he exiled the bishop to Gaul. Although many of the charges against Athanasius may have been questionable, there can be no doubt that he was violent toward his enemies.28 His was the sort of behavior that Constantine was trying to end.
Unlike many of his rivals, chief among them Eusebius of Nicomedia, Athanasius seems to have missed the point, in that he was less in keeping with the spirit of Nicaea than were Arius and his former supporters who had later acknowledged their errors.29 The broader significance of the careers of Eustathius, Marcellus, and Athanasius is that their treatment by Constantine mirrors his treatment of pagans who displeased him. His main concern was to promote religious peace and coexistence, and he would penalize any who caused strife.