To be sure, all these changes had been more uniformly enforced in the East than in the West. Rome, where the influence of the Senate was still strong and the traditions of Roman religion were most entrenched, had been the place most resistant to change. But what would happen once Christians were put in charge, even in Rome? Constantine had not long ago appointed the first Christian consul, Acilius Severus, who was now the first Christian urban prefect, charged with readying the city for the emperor’s Vicennalia visit. The city’s legal jurisdiction, which had once extended over much of Italy, had been severely cut back, to a mere one-hundred-mile radius. The emperor seemed increasingly indifferent or even hostile to the unique status of Rome.
Other changes were more innocuous. The use of a seven-day week dated back to Augustus, with names of the days linked to the sun, moon, and five planets; Constantine had now prohibited any official business or manufacturing on Sol’s day, which he called the Lord’s Day. Making the day named for the sun into the day of the Christians’ god was yet another step in the long linkage of that deity with Apollo and Sol and Elagabalus.
Locally in Rome, two of the most important annual holidays were now October 28, Expulsion of the Tyrant (meaning Maxentius), and October 29, Arrival of the Divine (meaning Constantine).
Constantine’s open hostility to the old religion was matched by his growing interest (some said interference) in Christianity. He had taken an active role in trying to bring uniformity to the faith’s patchwork of conflicting theologies. “How am I to build a city of churches,” he had said, “until I know precisely what is to be worshipped in those churches?”
At the Council of Nicaea, not far from Byzantium, Constantine had called the bishops together, overseen their debates, and relentlessly pressed them for a result. Zenobius, at that time shuttling back and forth between Byzantium and Nicaea to consult with both the emperor and with city planners, had seen and overheard much that was going on at the Council. He had written about what he called “religious sausage-making” to his father, though he hesitated to infuriate a man as old and frail as Gnaeus, who was now in his nineties:
Their talk is all about divine “substances” and especially pedigree—whether Jesus was younger than God, having been made by him, and thus subordinate, as anyone would presume was the case with a father and son, or whether Jesus was in fact the same age as God, having existed just as long, that is to say since before time began, and thus not God’s junior but his equal, and so on and on. Then there is a third something called the Holy Spirit, which is either the same stuff as God and Jesus, or different stuff, in which case, where did it come from, how long has it existed, and is it superior or inferior or exactly equal to God and Jesus? Since this is all (as you call it, Father) “made-up nonsense,” no one can possibly either “prove” or “disprove” any of it, so the debaters resort to esoteric terminology and obscure references, impossible for any outsider to understand. It is hard to imagine that the emperor with his “barracks Greek” (his term, not mine) can follow their arguments. I suspect he hasn’t the least idea what is going on at Nicaea. All he wants is a unanimous vote. Share this letter with Kaeso and then burn it.
Pausing in Aquileia on his way to Rome on the first day of April, Constantine announced a number of new laws to address a perceived crisis of licentious behaviors. These included rape, sex outside marriage, the keeping of concubines, and adultery.
Some of the penalties were horrific. Rapists—a category including any man who had intercourse with a consenting girl without marrying her first—were to be burned alive. Any girl who willingly consented to “abduction” and ravishment—in other words, a girl who eloped without her father’s consent and had intercourse with her “abductor”—was to be burned alive as well. Any nursemaid who assisted her charge in such an elopement was to have molten lead poured down her throat.
A married man was not to keep any concubines. Any man who did so committed adultery, and adulterers were to be exiled. Charges of adultery could only be brought by a close family member. This was to protect innocent men from spurious charges contrived by political enemies or business rivals.
From Aquileia, Zenobius wrote ahead to Kaeso:
As you know, high on the emperor’s agenda will be his first visit to the newly constructed Christian basilica next to the House of the Laterani. I cannot stress enough how important it is that everything about this structure, inside and out, lives up to the emperor’s expectations. (It is entirely finished and decorated, yes?) The emperor’s mother has kept him abreast of progress, sending regular letters along with plans and drawings and even samples of marble. From your letters, I gather that Helena personally oversaw much of the project herself. I can imagine the lady has not made your life easy! I gather that even the Bishop of Rome is cowed by her.
I am told that Bishop Sylvester, after consultation with Helena, will dedicate the structure to “Our Savior,” so that is what the worshippers will call this basilica. Since this is the very first public Christian church in Rome, it will be closely scrutinized by everyone. If it pleases the emperor (and his mother), it may serve as a model for the many churches he intends to be built in his new city.
To more mundane matters: her apartments in the House of the Laterani (or Lateran Palace as some now call it) must be made ready for the empress Fausta and her retinue, including her two daughters and three sons and all those charged with tutoring, feeding, and looking after them. I attach a list. Her older stepson, Crispus, also needs lodgings in the palace. These rooms should have a separate entrance from the others, since young men, including military officers, will likely be coming and going and Fausta and her daughters must not be exposed to any coarse language or unseemly behavior.
I trust that the emperor’s mother and the Bishop of Rome are still pleased with their lodgings at the Lateran Palace. But I do fear that Fausta’s long-vacant chambers are likely to be full of spider webs and dust, or, worse, that some parts may have been commandeered as storage rooms for Helena and the bishop. I trust you to find a diplomatic way to clear up any such problems before we arrive.
Another matter: when you greet the emperor’s entourage upon our arrival—how I look forward to seeing you again after so many months!—I ask that you do not wear the family fascinum. It pains me to ask this, but the emperor frowns on what he calls “magic amulets and demonic talismans.” I realize that it would be under your toga anyway, and out of sight, but nonetheless I think it better that you leave it at home. Why tempt the Fates? But do not tell your grandfather about this request. No need to upset him. Burn this letter.
Constantine’s entry into Rome commenced with a ceremonial crossing of the Milvian Bridge, with Constantine leading the way on horseback and carrying his battle standard, called the labarum. This was a gilded spear with a cross-bar toward the top. Its resemblance to a crucifix was not accidental. Surmounting this cross was a much-bejeweled golden wreath, and inside the wreath was a chi-rho symbol. The labarum had been carried into every battle between Constantine and Licinius. No soldier charged with carrying it had ever been struck by an arrow.
At the highest point of the Milvian Bridge—the newest part, rebuilt after Maxentius had destroyed it—Constantine stopped and held the labarum aloft so that it could be seen by everyone in the party behind him as well as by the spectators gathered along the river and on the city wall.
“The day before the battle, in the sky above Rome I saw the cross of Christ, and a divine voice spoke in my ear and said, ‘In this sign, conquer!’ And the night before the battle, I dreamed of the emblem of Christ, the chi-rho, and a divine messenger instructed me to have my men paint it on their shields. I did so. The next day, at this very spot, as Maxentius made a cowardly retreat, the bridge collapsed beneath him and the tyrant drowned in the Tiber!”
From his place in the imperial retinue some distance behind Constantine, Zenobius heard the emperor clearly, and released a sigh of exasperation. Some of the details as related by Constantine w
ere not as Zenobius remembered. For one thing, Maxentius had not fallen from the Milvian Bridge; he himself had ordered the demolition of the central part, before the battle. But many subsequent accounts of the battle left out the complicated detail of the pontoon bridges, and it had become an accepted historical fact that the stone bridge had miraculously collapsed beneath Maxentius. If Constantine himself remembered it that way, who was Zenobius to contradict him?
Also, Zenobius had been present at a dinner in Nicaea when Constantine, drinking wine and telling war stories to the bishops, suddenly seemed to realize, for the first time, that the strange bending of the light he saw in the sky before the battle must have been a cross, and at the same time he revealed that a voice had said to him, “In this sign, conquer.” Zenobius himself had been told by Constantine, shortly after the battle, about the odd phenomenon in the sky, but at that time Constantine had not described it as a cross. Nor had he mentioned hearing a voice; Zenobius was quite sure of that. But who was Zenobius to assert that his memory was sharper than that of the emperor, especially when Constantine now remembered the incident so vividly? The bishops had been much impressed, and since that night, the story had become one of the emperor’s standard anecdotes.
The procession entered the city and paraded down the Flaminian Way, the longest stretch of straight road in the city. Cheering crowds greeted the emperor. The excitement was genuine. Above all else, Constantine was a winner, the warmaker who brought peace, the man who put an end to decades of civil strife. The spectacular plans for his Vicennalia—no gladiator games, but plenty of horse races, animal hunts in the arena, and lavish banquets—demonstrated that he cared about and respected the ancient city after all, despite his long absence and his plans for the new city.
Many in the crowd were giddy with excitement when they caught glimpses of the imperial family—the emperor and his empress, who was still surprisingly youthful and beautiful, and also his two daughters and his four sons, who ranged in age from a toddler to the oldest, Crispus, the dashing war hero who had conducted himself so brilliantly in the war against Licinius. Women swooned at the sight of Crispus. More fearsome than handsome were the emperor’s half brothers, two very stern square-jawed war veterans.
Constantine’s first stop was the Church of Our Savior. His mother and Bishop Sylvester greeted him on the steps. Helena bestowed kisses on her daughter-in-law and on all her grandchildren, much to the delight of the crowd.
Feeling a bit nervous, Zenobius followed the imperial party inside. He was struck anew by the curious fact that the Christians had chosen for their first state-built temple a structure in the shape of a basilica, essentially a regal throne room and audience chamber. All seemed finished. The materials were of the very highest quality, as was the workmanship. He was most apprehensive about two silver statues of Jesus that had been ordered by the bishop. Any art lover could judge the quality of a Hercules or Apollo or Antinous, but what did a first-rate Jesus look like? This deity, with his long hair and beard and his flowing robes, looked to Zenobius more like a Jewish magician than a god. But the work done by the silversmiths was excellent, and Zenobius was relieved to see the pride with which Helena showed them off. Constantine was pleased.
Fausta and her children remained with Helena, to settle in at their apartments at the House of the Laterani. Then Constantine, his religious duty done, was eager to see the New Basilica—or more precisely, to see a change to his colossal statue there. Following the emperor, his half brothers, and Crispus, Zenobius was again a bit nervous, for like the emperor he would be seeing for the first time the alteration to the statue carried out by Kaeso at the emperor’s behest.
They were met at the entrance of the New Basilica by the Christian city prefect, Acilius Severus, and by Kaeso, whom Zenobius eagerly embraced.
“The fascinum?” Zenobius whispered in his son’s ear.
“Safe at home, Father, as you requested.”
Zenobius nodded, but felt a sentimental twinge of regret. Here he was, back in Rome at last, reunited with his son. What would have been the harm, after all, if Kaeso had worn the family heirloom, as would only be right and proper? But Kaeso had done as he requested. If Zenobius had been over-cautious, he had only himself to blame.
The imperial party entered the basilica. Like a seated giant, the statue loomed at the far end of the building. Zenobius had forgotten just how big it was. Reflecting the beams of sunlight from high windows and, lower down, the flickering light of lamps and torches, the flesh-colored marble seemed to glow, as if it would be warm to the touch. The illusion of a living, breathing, sentient colossus present in the chamber was so uncanny it was almost unnerving. To Zenobius, this place felt more like a temple of worship than did the Christian church, housing as it did such a huge statue, even if the statue was that of a living mortal.
Zenobius held his breath as they crossed the enormous space, then relaxed as he saw Constantine’s delighted reaction. Replacing the giant scepter with a glass orb in the statue’s hand was a replica of the labarum, seven times larger than life. Great expense had been lavished to make the giant battle standard as magnificent as the original, gilding it and covering it with countless jewels. Now the colossal Constantine presided over the space holding a giant cross displaying the chi-rho symbol of Christ. The new religion was triumphant even here, in the secular heart of the Forum.
Zenobius felt a stab of nostalgia. His subversive tribute to the dead emperor—putting a giant replica of Maxentius’s still-hidden scepter in the Constantine statue’s hand—had been superseded. The last, covert traces of Maxentius, who so loved and doted on the city of Rome, had vanished for good.
With his two half brothers, as well as Crispus, the city prefect, and a troop of bodyguards, Constantine left the New Basilica and took a stroll through the Forum. The Pinarii followed along. The open spaces and temple steps were crowded with citizens enjoying the holiday. People cheered with delight at seeing the emperor along with his son and heir apparent, the two of them at last returned to the heart of Rome’s empire.
But this was also the heart of the old religion, with age-old temples all around—their doors all conspicuously open, as the law now required. If Constantine no longer believed in the gods inside those temples, the vast majority of the city’s population did. They seemed to interpret the emperor’s presence as homage paid to the primacy of the city of Rome and the primal values and traditions the city embodied.
Constantine reached the Senate House. Rebuilt by Diocletian and Maximian after a fire, it still looked quite new amid so many old buildings, its freshly scrubbed steps white and gleaming. At the top of those steps, among the senators waiting to greet the emperor, Zenobius was surprised to see his father. At ninety-four, Gnaeus Pinarius was probably the oldest senator alive. He was certainly the oldest one present. Knowing how deeply his father detested Constantine’s religious policies, Zenobius could only assume that the old man’s respect for decorum had trumped his personal distaste: when a Roman emperor visited Rome, a Roman senator must show up to greet him.
Zenobius’s heart swelled with pride at the sight of his father, until he saw that the old man was wearing the fascinum—not tucked out of sight, but outside his toga, plainly visible, the gold glinting brightly in the sunlight.
Constantine slowly ascended the steps, seeming to relish the moment. To either side, senators bowed their heads as he passed. When Constantine reached the porch he noticed Gnaeus Pinarius. He gave the old senator a deferential nod, acknowledging his great age.
Then Constantine saw the fascinum. He frowned. “Do I know you, Senator?”
“I am Gnaeus Pinarius, Dominus.”
“Ah, yes, patriarch of the Pinarii. Your son and grandson have served me well. You can be very proud of them.”
“I am, Dominus. I am proud of all the Pinarii, living and dead. Our ancestors go back to the founding of Rome, and before.” Gnaeus reached up to touch the fascinum, as if deliberately to draw attention to it.
“No, Dominus. I suppose it does look a bit like a cross, which I understand to be a symbol of those who worship the crucified god. No, this amulet is very old. Even older than myself,” he said with a smile, “and I am old enough to remember when the emperor Philip celebrated the Millennium of Rome. This amulet long predates the birth of Jesus. It predates even the founding of Rome. Time has worn away its original form: a phallus with wings, an image of the great god Fascinus.”
Constantine drew back, wrinkling his nose.
“Fascinus was the first god ever to appear to the first mortals who lived among the Seven Hills,” continued Gnaeus. “The Vestal virgins keep an image of the god in the House of the Vestals, which they bring out only when a triumph is staged at Rome. They place it under the triumphal chariot, out of sight, where it wards off the Evil Eye. It was there beneath your feet, Dominus, protecting you, when you celebrated your triumph over the man you call ‘the Tyrant,’ the late emperor Maxentius.”
Constantine’s frown grew more pronounced.
“But of course, as Pontifex Maximus, you know that already.”
“Of course,” said Constantine. “The Vestals were allowed to practice their ancient tradition. An old custom. Very old, very quaint. Very ‘pagan,’ as we say nowadays.”
Now it was Gnaeus who frowned. “‘Pagan’?” he asked. The word came from old Latin. It had originally referred to a peasant or anyone living in the countryside, as opposed to a sophisticated city-dweller. Over time it had become an insult. A pagan was a hayseed, a country bumpkin, a clod. “I don’t understand your use of that word, Dominus.”
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