by Douglas Boin
Photo credit: © www.BibleLandPictures.com/Alamy Stock Photo.
In the floor’s center is a personification of the Greek and Roman sun god, Helios. Here, Helios is shown holding a globe and a staff, representing his dominion over the known world, which was precisely the way Roman emperors were depicted. Around Helios are the twelve signs of the Zodiac, from Aries and Aquarius to Sagittarius and Scorpio; and each has been labeled in Hebrew. The four corners of the floor were filled with personifications of the four seasons. There was also a panel with the lulav, and elsewhere on the floor, the names of its donors, written in Greek and Aramaic.
What did this piece of synagogue artwork mean to the community? Because the imagery is so unique, it has been difficult for scholars to agree upon an interpretation. Some see the Helios figure as the representation of the Roman emperor, the cosmocrator, or ruler of the known world. For others, the notion that the Roman emperor, a Christian, would be depicted in a Jewish worship space is difficult to accept. A different interpretation would suggest that Helios, the sun, was meant to underline the importance of the solar calendar to Jewish time. In this approach, the Zodiac can be seen as a symbol of the lunar cycle, and Helios of the solar one. Whichever the interpretive path one chooses to follow, the mosaics at Hammat Tiberias, like the synagogues at Sardis and Priene, confirm the distinctness of Jewish time in an empire where many Jews comfortably lived and worked among an overwhelmingly non‐Jewish population.
9.4 The Communities of Roman Egypt, Fourth–Fifth Centuries CE
One territory in the empire, Roman Egypt, offers a rich case study for the wide‐ranging forms that Late Antique community could take. Egypt’s cities were sites where Roman soldiers were stationed. Its cities, oases, and desert roads and hills were places where churches and monasteries developed, such as Mt. Saint Catherine’s on the Sinai peninsula. Roman Egypt was also home to one of the empire’s most cosmopolitan cities, Alexandria, where social and theological tensions were festering during the fourth century CE (Political Issues 9.1: Theological Creeds as Party Platforms). One of these groups, nourished on a militant form of Christianity, would later be responsible for burning to the ground an architectural gem and cultural beacon of the Roman world, Alexandria’s Temple of Serapis. This catastrophe stunned many Christians, Jews, and non‐Christians at the time. It also illustrates, for us, many of the unresolved tensions which the empire’s Christian community at large had not yet addressed about how Christians should live as citizens in the Roman Empire. Let’s look at these groups.
Political Issues 9.1 Theological Creeds as Party Platforms
By Shenoute’s time, laws had been used to stigmatize most non‐Christian religious traditions, and bishops had begun to set parameters for proper Christian belief. The Nicene creed, formulated in 325 CE, had been articulated as the only state‐sanctioned expression of Christianity. At issue was an important matter of belief: Had Jesus been born the Messiah [“Christ”] or had he become the Messiah? According to the council of Nicaea, Jesus had been both human and divine, co‐eternal with God, at his birth. Anyone who believed otherwise – supposing, for example, that there once had been a time in the earth’s history when Jesus hadn’t existed – would be excluded from the community.
“Nicaea” was a carefully worded document which outlined the group’s most important beliefs. How people lived these beliefs on a day‐to‐day basis is another question. Neither a party platform nor a theological creed pre‐determines the way that people behave in their daily life. That said, the effects of Nicaea would ripple through the empire for centuries.
Nestorius (386–451), bishop of Constantinople from 428–431, and Cyril, bishop of Alexandria (412–444), were two of the men it ensnared. For them, the debate about Jesus’ human and divine nature had raised several complications which demanded revisiting. If Jesus had been the Messiah at the time of his birth, then Mary, his mother, had given birth to a god. The idea of a divine offspring sprouting from a human family tree was not unheard of in antiquity – Hercules was the son of Zeus and the human Alcmene – but for fifth‐century bishops, the concept of a divine offspring needed more clarity if it was going to be applied to Jesus.
By 431 CE, at Ephesos, leaders would convene a council to try to resolve the matter. The Council at Ephesos awarded Mary an important Greek epithet: Theotokos, meaning “God‐bearer.” Nestorius, uncomfortable with the term, tried to argue that “God‐bearer” unduly privileged Jesus’ divinity over his humanity. But in this dispute he lost – both the argument and his title. Defeated at the Council of Ephesos, Nestorius left for Persia to spread his message. Nestorius’ beliefs would become the basis for many Christian communities in Sasanian Persia, Central Asia, and China.
Cyril, too, quibbled with the Ephesos language. He would assert that Jesus had only one nature (physis), uniting the human and the divine. Although not technically at odds with the council’s decisions, Cyril’s belief in Jesus’ “one nature” – like Nestorius’ belief in two natures – would shape the story of Christianity. By 451 CE, a follow‐up council at Chalcedon (the modern Kadıköy neighborhood of Istanbul, on the Asiatic side of the Turkish capital) was summoned to resolve the matter. In the Chalcedon revisions to their platform, bishops would reaffirm that Jesus had two natures, human and divine, both of which had been united in one essence. This language proved unacceptable to many of Cyril’s supporters in Alexandria, who believed Jesus had one, not two, natures.
Cyril’s beliefs, nevertheless, fostered a strong sense of community among those who supported him. Today, the Armenian Apostolic Church and the Coptic Orthodox Church in Egypt identify with his belief in “one nature,” called miaphysitism, from the Greek word for “one” (mia).
Antony and the monastic communities
Antony (c.250–356 CE) was a lively model for many Christians in and beyond Roman Egypt. They told stories about him, preserved letters that were thought to have been written by him, and looked up to him as the founder of an ascetic, monastic way of Christian life that others began to emulate. In the middle of the fourth century, the bishop of Alexandria, Athanasius, would compose a Life of Antony that ensured the man’s lasting, saintly reputation. Later Christians, in the eastern and western Mediterranean, revered Athanasius’ biography because the story seemed to convey “in the form of a narrative, the laws of the monastic life” (Gregory Nazianzus, Orations 21.5, trans. by C. Browne and J. Swallow in the NPNF series [1894]). Augustine of North Africa would express admiration for Antony’s Life (Confessions 8.6).
Regrettably, not much is known about Antony that is verifiable. Athanasius’ Life of Antony, however, is not the only source we have to depend upon. Other fourth‐century documents give us a picture of a man which, like a view through a prism, changes depending on which one we pick up. These texts speak to three characteristics that may have helped Antony gather and grow his devoted community. In one document, preserved in Syriac and Armenian, the author (Serapion of Thmuis) emphasizes how Antony had assumed the role of patron and protector in divine matters, able to defend many Christians who knew him against the attack of harmful demons. In another source, a collection letters which is traditionally attributed to Antony himself, Antony emerges as a wise teacher. Here, he is a figure who reveals his “secret knowledge” to Christians (“gnōsis,” in Greek), different from the sort of learning one could get through a traditional Roman education or the study of philosophy. The third of the sources for Antony’s life, written by an Egyptian monk (Pachomius), lionizes Antony for being the founder of a monastic movement (Working With Sources 9.1: Buried Coptic Writings and “Gnostic” Gospels from Nag Hammadi, Egypt).
Working With Sources 9.1 Buried Coptic Writings and “Gnostic” Gospels from Nag Hammadi, Egypt
Books are more than a collection of words or a demonstration of one’s literary pretensions. They are also pieces of material culture. As archaeological objects, they come from specific contexts – in a library, in a house, on a street, in a
town – all of which are significant details which historians have to consider when assembling the social profile of their owners. Where and how a piece of writing was found is just as important as what the piece of parchment or papyrus says.
That warning is particularly important to keep in mind when reading and discussing the Nag Hammadi codices. Found by accident in 1945, the Nag Hammadi codices are a collection of thirteen books which had been stuffed in a jar and buried in Upper Egypt in the late fourth century CE. When they were rediscovered, the codices ignited a debate about Christian origins and Christian orthodoxy because they contained many “lost Christian writings” such as a Gospel of Mary and a Gospel of Thomas.
All the texts were written in Coptic, a language that had emerged in the third century CE. Combining an everyday form of Egyptian (the “demotic,” or spoken, language, as opposed to its more elaborate “hieroglyphic” form) with letters borrowed largely from the Greek alphabet, Coptic became an important means of literary expression for the Christian communities in Roman Egypt. Shenoute, head of the monastic community at Atripe, is one of the only known authors of an extensive Coptic body of work.
Why were the Nag Hammadi texts buried? Based on the sometimes shifting facts that surround their discovery, there has been endless speculation. Some scholars see the late fourth century as a period of theological oppression; they believe that these alternate histories of Christianity were deliberately buried in Roman Egypt during a campaign to enforce orthodoxy. The jar itself, they note, was found outside an important monastery where such writings were not likely to be appreciated. Others, pointing to the broader cultural practices of burial in Egypt – in which the deceased were buried with “books of the dead” to ensure safe travel to the afterlife – suggest that the jar had originally been located near a tomb.
The partially documented discovery of the codices and the corresponding lack of any excavation report means that the debate about where they were found will likely continue. For that reason the texts will also likely remain at the center of a conversation about the diversity of beliefs in early Christianity. Although the books are pieces of Late Antique material culture, many of the texts are believed to be translated copies of earlier, Greek writings.
The Gospel of Thomas is one of these. A collection of quotations attributed to Jesus, it lacks the familiar narrative structure of the more well‐known gospels and does not even mention the crucifixion. Scholars speculate that it was compiled at a very early date in the formation of the Jesus movement, perhaps the middle of the first century CE. Who were the people who read these alternative stories about Jesus, and how reflective were their beliefs of the broader Christian community?
Which set of sources preserves the “real” Antony is impossible to say, particularly because Athanasius’ later biography showcases all three different characteristics. What does emerge from Athanasius’ story is that Antony was presented to others as a holy figure who gave up sex, encouraged fasting, and renounced wealth, all decisions which contemporary Christian readers were encouraged to emulate. In this respect, it seems clear that Athanasius, who was the bishop of Alexandria at the time he published his Life of Antony, was using Antony’s memory to promote his own individualistic idea of what it meant to be a member of the Christian community at Alexandria.
Roman army members and military families
In the same way that not every Christian community was built around a renunciation of sex, food, or wealth, not every community in Roman Egypt was necessarily united around the bonds of worship and belief. Members of the Roman army stationed in Egypt, although they may not have undergone the same rites of initiation as Nicagoras, the official of the Eleusinian mysteries, or the followers of Mithras, show us how military service could create the same kinds of deep, personal links that civilian Romans formed in other settings.
The story of Flavius Taurinos is particularly illustrative. We can trace four generations of his family’s fortunes (five, if we consider the fact that we know the name of Flavius Taurinos’ father), thanks to papyrus documents from Hermopolis. These documents form an essential collection for following the tightly knit fortunes of one Roman military family during the late fifth and early sixth centuries CE.
Flavius Taurinos was born sometime around 405 CE. Son of a local Egyptian named Plousammon, by adulthood, Flavius was already serving in the Roman army. Enlisted in the cavalry unit known as the Mauri, alongside Moorish soldiers from the Maghreb of North Africa, he died in 455 CE, just as a Vandal brigade was attacking Portus, the industrial harbor of Rome. The shock of this attack may have shaped the decision of Flavius’ son to enter the army, too. Flavius Ioannes the first (435–500 CE), born in Egypt, also served in the military, but he shows signs of pursuing a much more ambitious career path than his father. Ioannes quickly advanced from his unit to serve in the emperor’s palace, where he held the post of notary, or scrinarius, before being transferred back to Egypt. He named his own son for his dad, Flavius Taurinos the second (c.465–512/513 CE).
Continuing the legacy of father and grandfather, the boy also found his voice by serving in the Roman army. But by the end of the fifth century CE, he had parted ways dramatically with family tradition. Taurinos became a priest. Finally, the last of the Flavius family, Flavius Ioannes the second, is known to have worked in the administration of the emperor. He probably died in the mid‐sixth century CE. (Family details have been reconstructed from papyrus records; the lineage has been pieced together by B. Palme in EBW [2007], pp. 244–253.)
The fortunes of this family, rooted in the world of Roman Egypt although not entirely limited to it, show how military service could lead to promotion and advancement over time. Expectations within the family may have been conservative, and options for a son’s or grandson’s future may have been limited financially. But the legacy of Flavius Taurinos illustrates for us that some fathers could be rewarded greatly – and their sons could gain much – by being active members of a community of soldiers. The lives of families like these, although some of the hardest stories of Late Antique history to reconstruct, are important for seeing how blood connections bound people together as much as a membership in an association, guild, or army unit.
Disaffected communities: “God’s soldiers,” c.391–392 CE
In the late fourth century, the Roman military in Egypt – many of whom may have been Christian – were grappling with a different kind of “soldier” in their midst. These citizens, who also identified as Christians, came from Alexandria and its surroundings. Motivated by their own unique understanding of their faith, they saw themselves as enlisted in God’s heavenly army.
Once home to Cleopatra, Alexandria in Late Antiquity was still a queen’s city. A document written in the language of Syriac, the Alexandrian City Survey, catalogues the number of its houses, temples, churches, baths, taverns, and even porticoes.Although preserved in a later manuscript, this methodologically compiled list was likely composed between the mid‐second century and late fourth century CE. A densely packed, throbbing sea‐side city springs to life from its dry accounting.
Each of the five quarters of Alexandria is inventoried, each designated in antiquity with a Greek letter. All together, there were 47,790 houses across the five neighborhoods, 8,102 courtyards, 2,478 temples and shrines, 1,561 bath complexes, 935 inns and taverns, and 456 porticoes (P. Fraser, “A Syriac ‘Notitia Urbis Alexandrinae’,” Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 37 [1951], pp. 103–108, at p. 104). The last detail might seem a trivial kind of public feature to include, but in the sun‐drenched Nile Delta – the hill country of Texas is roughly on the same latitude as Alexandria – these types of covered walkways were highly prized. And, like the colonnades at Thessaloniki and Constantinople, hallmarks of imperial greatness, the colonnades at Alexandria transformed this waterfront city into a glamorous stage suitable to host Roman emperors.
Over this crowded landscape was perched the Serapeum, or “Sanctuary of Serapis,” the largest, most pop
ular, most prominent temple in the city. In 391 or 392 CE, armed with the teachings of their faith, a band of Christian militants plotted to attack it. These disturbing events are recorded in Latin by an early fifth‐century Christian writer, Rufinus of Aquileia (Church History 11.4, 11.23). They form one of the darkest chapters in fourth‐century history.
In 388 CE, Christians had attacked a synagogue in Raqqa, Syria. In 415, the Christian community of Minorca would burn a Jewish worship space on the island (Severus of Minorca, Letter on the Conversion of the Jews 13–14). A graffito from Rome, dated to perhaps the middle of the fourth century CE, shows an imperial statue being toppled to the ground. These examples remind us that Late Antique Rome was an empire home to many kinds of communities, not all of whom were enamored with the values of toleration, the legitimacy of Roman government or the urban presence of Jewish neighbors. The destruction of the Serapeum is not the only known example of Christian violence directed against non‐Christians after the Edict of Milan, but it was the most catastrophic. In many quarters of the empire, not just in Alexandria, it negatively defined Romans perceptions of Christianity for years, if not generations.
