Pagans and Christians in the City

by Steven D. Smith

  And so, acknowledging that everything said here might seem to the actual combatants wholly to miss the most important facts, and to treat eternally foreordained events as fortuitous contingencies, we will limit ourselves to considering the two major contemporary accounts of the ancient conflict between paganism and Christianity—namely, the displacement and the political or suppression accounts.

  How the West Was (and Wasn’t) Won for Christianity

  The Political Struggle. Despite significant differences in historical interpretations, some aspects and episodes of the sometimes latent and sometimes open struggle between paganism and Christianity can be recalled with tolerable confidence. Whether or not these episodes constitute the explanation for Christianity’s success, they will at least provide an acceptably secure framework for our inquiry.

  Thus, as we have seen, in the early centuries of the Christian era, and for understandable reasons that we considered in the previous chapter, Roman authorities generally looked on Christianity with suspicion and disfavor, and they often expressed their disapproval with repressive measures, including, sometimes, harsh methods of punishment and execution. Exactly how many Christians were punished or executed is, as we saw, unknowable. What we can say with confidence is that the persecution of Christians was intermittent, not constant or ubiquitous, but that it did occur, repeatedly; and when it did, the repression could be savage.

  In the middle of the third century, in the midst of what many historians perceive as a “time of troubles”—of grave political, military, and economic challenges that threatened the very survival of the empire22—the emperors Decian and Valerian promoted campaigns of severe repression. Then again in the early fourth century, under the emperor Diocletian, his imperial associate Galerius, and his successor Maximinus Daia, Roman authorities instituted what came to be known as “the Great Persecution.” The Christian thinker and rhetorician Lactantius, who lived through that harrowing period, reported that

  presbyters and other officers of the Church were seized, without evidence by witnesses or confession, condemned, and together with their families led to execution. In burning alive, no distinction of sex or age was regarded; and because of their great multitude, they were not burnt one after another, but a herd of them were encircled with the same fire; and servants, having millstones tied about their necks, were cast into the sea. Nor was the persecution less grievous on the rest of the people of God; for the judges, dispersed through all the temples, sought to compel every one to sacrifice. The prisons were crowded; tortures hitherto unheard of, were invented; and lest justice should be inadvertently administered to a Christian, altars were placed in the courts of justice, hard by the tribunal, that every litigant might offer incense before his cause could be heard.23

  Under these circumstances, “to be beheaded was an indulgence shown to very few.”24 Lactantius, to be sure, seemed almost to find a morbid pleasure in detailing the horrifically slow and excruciating methods devised to execute Christians, and he took even more delight in lingering over the gruesome deaths of the persecuting emperors Galerius and Daia.25 Although Lactantius insisted that his accounts were all based on “the authority of well-informed persons,” and that he had “commit[ted the events] to writing exactly as they happened,”26 surely the details are subject to doubt—for example, whether the stench from the dying Galerius’s worm-addled intestines could have been so potent as to “pervade . . . the whole city.” And once again, it is impossible to quantify how many Christians were condemned, tortured, and killed.

  Still, the fact of the persecution is plain enough. Robert Markus observes that “in the Great Persecution at the beginning of the fourth century, the forces of Roman conservatism rallied in a last attempt to eliminate a dangerous threat to the traditional consensus.”27

  Reversal came relatively suddenly, after an ambitious upstart named Constantine somewhat ambiguously embraced Christianity (following a vision that he claimed to have experienced in 312), proceeded to win a decisive battle against numerically superior forces near the Milvian Bridge just outside Rome, and went on to make himself first joint and later sole emperor over the realm. Constantine (along with his coemperor Licinius) initially declared, in the so-called Edict of Milan, that Christianity would be tolerated. But he soon went further, favoring Christian churches and Christian bishops with influence and lavish endowments.28

  Exactly why he did all this is a subject of much dispute. Some historians have viewed the man as a “cynical opportunist”29 who embraced Christianity for crass political purposes. The eminent Swiss historian Jacob Burckhardt pronounced Constantine an “essentially unreligious” man who was “driven without surcease by ambition and lust for power.”30 The dominant view today, by contrast, seems to be that Constantine was a sincere and even zealous convert—albeit a somewhat irregular one: Christians, after all, are normally discouraged from slaughtering their wives and children—who gained no political advantage from his conversion to Christianity.31 Either way, within a generation Christianity had passed from being a persecuted to a preferred faith.

  While favoring Christianity, however, Constantine himself maintained a policy of religious toleration. The French historian Paul Veyne explains that “despite his deep desire to see all his subjects become Christians, . . . [Constantine] never persecuted pagans or denied them the right to express themselves; nor did he disadvantage them in their careers: if superstitious people wished to damn themselves, they were free to do so.”32

  In fact, insofar as imperial rigor was exercised in religious matters, it was mainly toward the Christians themselves,33 who upon the cessation of persecution promptly became mired in intricate theological disputations. Constantine was dismayed by this contentiousness. “He attributes the origin of the whole [Trinitarian] controversy,” Gibbon commented, “to a trifling and subtle question, concerning an incomprehensible point of law, which was foolishly asked by the bishop, and imprudently resolved by the presbyter.”34 Disgusted, the emperor reproved a group of bishops: “Even the barbarians . . . know God and have learned to reverence him, . . . [while the bishops] do nothing but that which encourages discord and hatred and, to speak frankly, which leads to the destruction of the human race.”35 For pagans, however, the Christians’ theological quarrels were a welcome distraction of the emperor’s attention. “The divisions of Christianity suspended the ruin of paganism,” Gibbon observed.36

  Still, Constantine was not wholly forgetful of, or permissive toward, the pagans. At least according to Eusebius, the emperor did order the closure of several pagan temples.37 (Other evidence suggests the contrary: the pagan orator Libanius later reported that “Constantine made absolutely no changes in the traditional form of worship.”)38 While discounting a report that Constantine prohibited pagan ceremonies, Gibbon noted that the emperor did suppress some practices of divination, and that while promising his subjects religious freedom, he also exhorted them to follow his example in accepting Christianity. “Without violating the sanctity of his promise [of religious freedom], without alarming the fears of the pagans, the artful monarch advanced, by slow and cautious steps, to undermine the irregular and decayed fabric of polytheism.”39

  Constantius, Constantine’s son and eventual successor (following a turbulent series of events, including a massacre of potential family rivals, a civil war, and the untimely deaths of his two brothers), took after his father in favoring Christianity, albeit under an Arian interpretation condemned by many bishops as heretical. A good deal of sometimes violent tension between the emperor and the Christian church accordingly ensued. Instead of being persecuted by pagan authorities, Trinitarian Christians were now being hounded and harassed by a nominally Christian emperor.40

  Even so, a species of Christianity remained ascendant. In 341, moreover, Constantius issued an order that by its terms forbade pagan sacrifices; fifteen years later, he prescribed actual penalties, including capital punishment, for the violation of this prohibition and also ordered the closur
e of temples. These seemingly draconian orders nonetheless appear to have gone entirely unenforced, and were scarcely noticed by pagan officials.41 Gibbon concluded that the prohibition was “either composed without being published, or was published without being executed.”42 Indeed, when visiting Rome in 357, Constantius himself (who, like his father and his Christian successors up until the emperor Gratian, retained the traditional imperial title of pontifex maximus over the pagan priesthoods)43 made a friendly tour of the city’s pagan temples.44 Edward Watts reports that “most temples remained open despite the laws, statues and images of the gods stared down from every corner of the cities, public sacrifices continued to be offered in many parts of the empire (including in Rome itself), and the traditional religious routines of households throughout the empire could continue unaffected.”45

  Despite lax enforcement, however, antipagan laws and precedents were slowly and quietly accumulating. Then, in 361, fortunes flipped again. Constantius unexpectedly died, cutting short yet another incipient civil war, and he was succeeded by his learned and colorful cousin Julian (who as a child had been deemed too youthful and innocuous for inclusion in the earlier family massacre). The new emperor promptly came out and declared himself a pagan. “I feel awe of the gods,” he exuded. “I love, I revere, I venerate them.”46 Gibbon observed that a “devout and sincere attachment for the gods of Athens and Rome, constituted the ruling passion of Julian.”47

  And the gods rewarded this devotion—or so the new emperor believed.

  Notwithstanding the modest silence of Julian himself, we may learn from his faithful friend, the orator Libanius, that he lived in a perpetual intercourse with the gods and goddesses; that they descended upon earth, to enjoy the conversation of their favourite hero; that they gently interrupted his slumbers, by touching his hand or his hair; that they warned him of every impending danger, and conducted him, by their infallible wisdom, in every action of his life; and that he had acquired such an intimate knowledge of his heavenly guests, as readily to distinguish the voice of Jupiter from that of Minerva, and the figure of Apollo from that of Hercules.48

  Acting on his newly declared faith in the old religion, Julian reinstituted the imperial sacrifice of animals on a massive scale. A contemporary quipped that if Julian were to enjoy a long tenure as emperor, “the breed of horned cattle must infallibly be extinguished.”49 While purporting to embrace religious toleration, Julian gave preference to pagans for high office,50 declined to discipline a mob that had rioted and murdered the Christian bishop of Cappodocia51 (though the emperor did appropriate the bishop’s much-admired library),52 and required that churches that had been built on pagan sites be demolished so that the temples could be rebuilt.53

  Probably his most controversial measure, however, was his edict banning Christians from teaching in the schools on the grounds that, since they did not believe in the gods, they were morally unfit to teach the classics.54 The projected effect of this ban, Princeton historian G. W. Bowersock observes, was that “within little more than a generation the educated elite of the empire would be pagan.”55 The law was “a masterstroke,” Adrian Murdoch observes: it “marginalized Christianity to the point where it could potentially have vanished within a generation or two, and without the need for physical coercion.”56 The exclusion provoked outrage, including from Julian’s fervent admirer, the pagan soldier and historian Ammianus Marcellinus (who served in Julian’s army).57 Edward Watts observes that Julian’s educational exclusions were the first instance in Roman history of citizens being legally sanctioned purely because of their beliefs.58

  Government-sponsored paganism was back, it seemed, with a vengeance.59

  Julian was and has remained a fascinating figure; in modern times he has inspired not only extensive historical study but also novels, plays, and poems.60 Bookish, slovenly, bearded (in imitation of the philosophers but in defiance of the fashions of the day), mystical, ascetic, and sexually abstemious, he proved to be an unlikely but capable military commander, crushing opposition to the empire in Gaul and Germany.61 In addition to performing his governmental and military duties, he wrote books on philosophy, history, and religion, including the virulently anti-Christian Against the Galileans. His paganism (or “Hellenism,” as he preferred) mixed academic learning and philosophical refinement with an old-fashioned devotion to the gods and the auguries.62

  Had Julian’s reign been extended, some historians surmise,63 he might have succeeded in repressing Christianity and reestablishing paganism as the official and dominant religion of the realm (albeit in a reformed version that attempted to incorporate some of Christianity’s advantageous features, including a disciplined priestly hierarchy and a commitment to caring for the poor).64 But after less than two years as emperor, in uncharacteristic defiance of the omens but in accordance with his intense identification with Alexander the Great, Julian resolved on a military campaign into Persia.65 Having reached the Tigris River, to the dismay of his soldiers, and in a decision that has perplexed observers both ancient and modern, the emperor ordered the supporting ships—more than a thousand of them—to be burned.66 Their means of convenient retreat having been destroyed, the legions then proceeded with the invasion, marching now into territory unknown to them.

  Soon the ill-advised and badly executed invasion was floundering, and the armies were faced not only with hostile forces but also with scanty supplies and scorching heat.67 Forced to acknowledge the failure of his campaign, Julian attempted to lead his exhausted and demoralized troops back to friendlier country, but in the retreat the emperor was killed by a stray arrow. One legend had it that just before expiring, Julian gasped, “Thou hast won, O Galilean.”68 Ammianus, by contrast, depicts the emperor on his deathbed discoursing in good Socratic fashion with pagan philosophers on the immortality of the soul.69

  Needing a leader to conduct the desperate retreat, the embattled legions hastily selected a distinguished pagan officer, Salutius, who refused the perilous appointment; and so they turned to another senior officer named Jovian, who happened to be Christian.70 Jovian managed to get the army out of Persia (in part by striking a disastrous deal that relinquished a sizable piece of territory to the Persians), and though his reign was short, he was succeeded by a series of Christian rulers. Jovian favored a policy of religious toleration, as did his immediate successors, Valens and Valentinian.71 Gradually, however, and perhaps (as one historian argues)72 acting on fears lingering from “the Great Persecution” and reawakened by Julian’s anti-Christian campaign, the emperors, and in particular the Spanish and severely orthodox emperor Theodosius, adopted a harsher series of laws closing temples and forbidding pagan sacrifices.73

  Although the scope of these measures and the extent of their enforcement continue to provoke disagreement among historians,74 the clear overall trend was toward the official elevation of Christianity and the repression of paganism. And when emperors stopped short in these efforts, mobs of militant monks and other faithful sometimes stepped in to carry out the task75—hence the destruction of the famous temple of Serapis in Alexandria and the murder of the distinguished female pagan scholar Hypatia.76

  The Politics of Symbolism. In explaining how and when Christianity prevailed over paganism, it is tempting to point to some watershed edict or law that signaled the change and that effectively suppressed the older religion. Perhaps the alleged closing of several pagan temples under Constantine? Or the law under Constantius that purported to make pagan sacrifice a capital offense? Or the edicts of Theodosius in 391 and 392 that expanded prohibitions on pagan worship?77

  But these explanations encounter a puzzle. Despite the apparent severity of some of these measures taken at face value, it seems that they had little actual effect on the practice of pagan religion. Indeed, as Edward Watts explains, prominent and politically involved pagans like Libanius and Praetextatus seem scarcely to have noticed them.78 These seem to have been paper prohibitions that went largely unenforced. And even while adopting suc
h antipagan measures, emperors like Constantine, Constantius, and Theodosius continued to tolerate or even support paganism in various ways,79 and to appoint substantial numbers of known pagans to high positions within the empire. Gibbon, never charitable toward Christianity, nonetheless acknowledged that even under Theodosius, “the profession of Christianity was not made an essential qualification for the enjoyment of the civil rights of society, nor were any peculiar hardships imposed on the sectaries, who credulously received the fables of Ovid, and obstinately rejected the miracles of the Gospel. The palace, the schools, the army, and the senate, were filled with declared and devout Pagans; they obtained, without distinction, the civil and military honors of the empire.”80

  What, then, to make of the apparent legal prohibitions issued by Constantius, Theodosius, and other Christian emperors of the period? Were these simply empty gestures, made to appease more aggressive Christian critics perhaps but not intended to have any real effect? There is no certain answer to such questions. But what seems clear is that however negligible their actual coercive effect may have been, such measures had a symbolic impact. Together with other overtly symbolic measures, these laws and policies gradually came to induce subjects to conceive of the empire in more Christian terms.

  Thus, Edward Watts explains that Constantius’s facially tough but practically feckless edicts against pagan sacrifice amounted to “largely symbolic policies.”81 But this is not to minimize their importance: symbolism can be important. An admired modern scholarly study argues that political communities are “imagined.”82 They exist not as physical facts, but as constructs in the minds of their citizens. And public symbols are the matter around and by which such imaginings occur. The competing pagan and Christian parties at least implicitly understood this point.

  Thus, when the Christian emperors of the later fourth century cut off funding for the support of the temples and the vestal virgins, it was not merely the withdrawal of material resources that Christians applauded and pagans resented; it was the denial of support that was perceived to be public in nature.83 Gibbon explained that for the pagan senatorial faction, “the Roman sacrifices would be deprived of their force and energy, if they were no longer celebrated at the expense, as well as in the name, of the republic.”84