Power and Rhetoric in the Ecclesiastical Correspondence of Constantine the Great [1 ed.] 1032105151, 9781032105154, 9781032105178, 9781003215677

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Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies

POWER AND RHETORIC IN THE ECCLESIASTICAL CORRESPONDENCE OF CONSTANTINE THE GREAT Andrew J. Pottenger

Power and Rhetoric in the Ecclesiastical Correspondence of Constantine the Great

This volume closely examines patterns of rhetoric in surviving correspondence by the Roman emperor Constantine on conflicts among Christians that occurred during his reign, primarily the ‘Donatist schism’ and ‘Arian controversy’. Commonly remembered as the ‘first Christian emperor’ of the Roman Empire, Constantine’s rule sealed a momentous alliance between church and state for more than a millennium. His well-known involvement with Christianity led him to engage with two major disputes that divided his Christian subjects: the ‘Donatist schism’ centred, from the emperor’s perspective, on determining the rightful bishop of Carthage, and the so-called ‘Arian controversy’, a theological conflict about the proper understanding of the Son’s divine nature in relation to that of the Father. This book examines a number of letters associated with Constantine that directly address both of these disagreements, exploring his point of view and motivations to better understand how and why this emperor applied his power to internal church divisions. Based on a close analysis of prominent themes and their functions in the rhetoric of his correspondence, Pottenger argues that three ‘doctrines of power’ served to inform and direct Constantine’s use of power as he engaged with these problems of schism and heresy. Power and Rhetoric in the Ecclesiastical Correspondence of Constantine the Great is of interest to students and scholars of early Christianity and the history of the later Roman Empire. Andrew J. Pottenger graduated with a PhD in Church History from the University of Manchester in 2019. Andrew has presented papers on subjects concerning power and rhetoric in Constantine’s correspondence at various conferences and research seminars in the United Kingdom and the United States. He has taught in courses related to the history of Christianity in countries such as the United Kingdom, Germany, Bulgaria, and the United States. He is currently an adjunct instructor in church history at Nazarene Bible College in Colorado Springs, Colorado (United States), where he lives with his wife, Gina.

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Power and Rhetoric in the Ecclesiastical Correspondence of Constantine the Great Andrew J. Pottenger

First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 Andrew J. Pottenger The right of Andrew J. Pottenger to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-1-032-10515-4 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-10517-8 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-21567-7 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003215677 Typeset in Times New Roman by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India

To my wife, Gina

Home will always be where you are In loving memory of Mary ‘Nona’ Rotz

who passed away as research for this book was completed

Contents

Acknowledgements Abbreviations Introduction

viii x 1

1

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts

23

2

The doctrine of divine favour and agency

62

3

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity

97

4

The doctrine of resistance and compromise: The Donatist schism

129

5

The doctrine of resistance and compromise: The ‘Arian controversy’

156

6

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337)

187

Conclusion

225

Appendix: List of analysed imperial documents Bibliography Index

233 236 258

Acknowledgements

This book is a revised version of a doctoral thesis completed at the University of Manchester. I would like to thank Dr Geordan Hammond and Dr Andrew T. Fear: I could not have asked for a better team to supervise the thesis, and I am grateful for their time and effort in helping me see it through to completion. Special thanks are also due to Professor Mark Humphries and Dr Thomas A. Noble, who served as my examiners: for their kind words and helpful suggestions during a truly pleasurable experience discussing that work with both of them. The initial research was completed in partnership with Nazarene Theological College (NTC) in Manchester, and I am grateful to them for the years of personal investment and scholarly support. I also thank the University, NTC, and the Ecclesiastical History Society for providing opportunities to present some of these ideas in various forms at research seminars and conferences. The encouragement and challenging criticism received in the collegial environment of British academia contributed significantly to the dedication and joy with which I pursued the thesis to successful completion. The present study benefited from the support offered by staff at the University Library and the library at NTC. I would like to thank Gladstone’s Library in Hawarden, United Kingdom, for providing a perfect environment for study and reflection away from other pressing concerns and distractions. Thanks are also due to NTC for the gift of a small scholarship that allowed me to enjoy an additional week of study at Gladstone’s Library. I am deeply grateful to Harold A. Drake, professor emeritus at the University of California in Santa Barbara, and Professor Clifford Ando from the University of Chicago, both of whom have provided valuable encouragement via e-mail at various points throughout the process of seeing this work through to publication. Both of them provided articles or chapters of their own research that I found helpful. I would like to thank James Corke-Webster, Barbara Saylor Rodgers, and Simon Corcoran for also generously providing me with published materials from their work at my request. No one named is in any way responsible for what errors or faults are in this book. Portions of the book’s second chapter appeared in the following publication under my authorship and are used by permission here: ‘The “Servant of God”: Divine Favour and Instrumentality under Constantine the Great, 318-25’, Studies in Church History, Vol. 54: Church and Empire (Stewart J. Brown, Charlotte

Acknowledgements ix Methuen, and Andrew Spicer, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 31–45. No work of this kind is ever completed without the support and contributions of many other colleagues, students, friends, and family members. Writing down everyone’s name along with stories of how each contributed to this work might have turned into its own book-length project, but each one of you are remembered with heartfelt gratitude. I would like to thank the editorial team at Routledge, particularly Marcia Adams, for guidance and support throughout the publication process. Thanks are also due to the anonymous reviewers whose critique and suggestions helped make this a better work. I am grateful beyond words to my parents and parents-in-law for their unwavering love, example, and generosity from which I have drawn so much of the necessary motivation and persistence in getting this work done. Finally, I leave the place of greatest honour in offering loving gratitude to my wife, Gina, who has without hesitation sacrificed far more than we both expected so that this project could see the light of day.

Abbreviations

Journals GRBS HThR JEH JRS JThS REByz ZAC

Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies Harvard Theological Review Journal of Ecclesiastical History Journal of Roman Studies Journal of Theological Studies Revue des études byzantines Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum

Reference works DCB EEC OCD PLRE

Dictionary of Christian Biography (Smith and Wace) Encyclopedia of Early Christianity Oxford Classical Dictionary (fourth edition) Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, Vol. 1

Series titles CAHS CIL CMG CML CSEL GCS ILS LCL NGG TTH TTHC

Clarendon Ancient History Series Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum Corpus Medicorum Graecorum Corpus Medicorum Latinorum Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten Jahrhunderte Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae Loeb Classical Library Nachrichten der Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften in Göttingen Translated Texts for Historians Translated Texts for Historians, Contexts

Abbreviations xi Ancient authors and works Const. Sirm. Cod. Iust. Cod. Theod. Hist. Aug. Aurel. Car. Hadr. Marc. Not. Dign. or. Orig. Const.

Constitutiones Sirmondianae Codex Iustinianus Codex Theodosianus Historia Augusta Aurelian Carus, Carinus, Numerian Hadrian Marcus Aurelius Notitia Dignitatum (In Partibus Oriens) The Anonymous Valesianus Pars Prior (Origo Constantini) Pan. Lat. XII Panegyrici Latini Amm. Marc. Ammianus Marcellinus Res Gestae a fine Corneli Taciti App. Appian B Civ. Bella civilia Arist. Aristotle Rh. Rhetorica Ath. Athanasius of Alexandria Apol. contra. Ar. Apologia contra Arianos sive Apologia secunda De decret. De decretis Nicenae synodi Ep. ad Serapion Epistula ad Serapion de morte Arii Vit. Ant. Vita S. Antoni August. Augustine of Hippo De doct. christ. De doctrina christiana Ep. Epistulae Parm. Contra Episulam Parmeniani Libri Tres Retract. Retractionum Libri Duo Augustus Emperor Augustus Caesar (r. 27 bc to ad 14) Res Gestae Res Gestae Divi Augusti (Monumentum Ancyranum) Aur. Vict. Sextus Aurelius Victor Caes. Liber de Caesaribus Caes. Julius Caesar BCiv. Bellum Civile Cass. Dio Cassius Dio Historia Romana Celsus Aulus Cornelius Celsus Med. De medicina Cic. Cicero Off. De officiis De or. De oratore Leg. De legibus

xii Abbreviations

Const. Cyprian Euseb.

Eutr. Fronto

Gai. Inst. Gel. Hist. eccl. Gr. Naz. Hippoc. J. Mal. Jer. Julian Justin Justinian Lactant. Lib. Livy M. Aur.

Nat. D. De natura deorum Verr. In Verrem Emperor Constantine I (r. ad 306–337) Orat. Oratio ad sanctorum coetium Cyprian of Carthage De laps. De lapsis De mort. De mortalitate Eusebius of Caesarea Hist. eccl. Historia ecclesiastica Mart. Pal. De Martyribus Palaestinae Vit. Const. Vita Constantini Eutropius Breviarum ab Urba Condita Marcus Cornelius Fronto Ep. Epistulae Ad M. Antoninum de Ad Marcum Antoninum de eloquentia eloquentia liber Gaius Institutiones Gelasius of Cyzicus Historia ecclesiastica Gregory of Nazianzus Or. Orationes Hippocrates De capit. vuln. De capitis vulneribus De pris. medic. De prisca medicina John Malalas Chron. Chronographia Jerome De viris illustribus De vir. ill. Chronica ab Abraham Chron. Emperor Julian (r. 361–363) Caes. Saturnalia (‘The Caesars’) Ep. Epistulae Justin Martyr Apol. Apologia Emperor Justinian I (r. ad 527–565) Dig. Digesta seu Pandectae Lactantius De mort. pers. De mortibus persecutorum Div. inst. Divinae institutiones Libanius of Antioch Or. Orationes Livy Ab Urbe Condita Libri Emperor Marcus Aurelius (r. ad 161–180) Med. Ta eis heauton (Meditations)

Abbreviations xiii Opt.

Optatus of Milevis De schism. donatist. De schismate donatistorum App. Appendix Orig. Origen of Alexandria C. Cels. Contra Celsum Oros. Orosius Historiae adversus paganos Phot. Photius of Constantinople Epit. Epitome Historiae Ecclesiasticae Bib. Bibliotheca Pl. Plato Phdr. Phaedrus Phlb. Philebus Respub. Respublica Plin. Pliny (the Younger) Ep. Epistulae Plut. Plutarch Vit. Vitae Parallelae Mar. Marius Sull. Sulla Pomp. Pompeius Quint. Quintilian Institutio Oratoria Socrates Socrates of Constantinople Hist. eccl. Historia ecclesiastica Sozom. Sozomen Hist. eccl. Historia ecclesiastica Suet. Suetonius De vita Caesarum Aug. Divus Augustus Tib. Divus Tiberius Claud. Divus Claudius Vesp. Divus Vespasianus Tac. Tacitus Ann. Annales Hist. Historiae Tert. Tertullian Apol. Apologia De bapt. De baptismo Theod. Theodoret of Cyrrhus Hist. eccl. Historia ecclesiastica Zos. Zosimus Nea Historia All translations are my own unless otherwise noted.

Introduction

Death makes no conquest of his conqueror For now he lives in fame, though not in life. —William Shakespeare, Richard III, Act 3, Scene 1, lines 87–881 One should bear in mind that there is nothing more difficult to execute, nor more dubious of success, nor more dangerous to administer than to introduce a new order of things. —Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince, Chapter 62

Shakespeare’s words, uttered by Prince Edward about Julius Caesar, could also be spoken regarding another name among the Romans that is still remembered in Western society: Constantine ‘the Great’ (r. ad 306–337). He is commonly recognised as ‘the first Christian emperor’, under whom a momentous alliance between church and state was sealed for more than a millennium, contributing to the transformation of classical antiquity into the medieval period and laying foundations for the modern world. Such co-opting of Constantine as a symbol for what one might seek to praise or blame in the West since the fourth century stems from the acknowledgement that this emperor indeed helped institute a new order.3 But when Constantine assumed the imperial purple at York on 25 July 306, the only ‘new order’ he sought to establish at that time was his own acknowledged place among the ruling tetrarchy previously established in 293 by Diocletian.4 Likewise, Constantine’s initial identification with Christianity (traditionally dated to October 312) is associated with his immediate and urgent need for victory over his rival Maxentius at the Battle of the Milvian Bridge.5 A pair of proclamations addressed to the eastern provinces after his final victory over Licinius in 324 did not establish a ‘Christian empire’, but outlined specific policies by which he intended to distinguish his rule from the defeated ‘tyrant’.6 His involvement in the internal problems of the Christian churches, dating from about 313 until the end of his life in 337, derived from his various responses to immediate issues rather than any preconceived plan to transform church and empire.7 DOI: 10.4324/9781003215677-1

2

Introduction

Why did Constantine engage in church affairs in the first place? And once he became involved, how did he interact with those to whom he addressed his calls for unity? About 40 surviving letters written in Constantine’s name describe what this emperor publicly desired to achieve in relation to the churches and his stated reasons behind such aims.8 The specific problem he addressed in most of these documents concerned various divisions among Christian communities scattered throughout the empire. Two ecclesiastical conflicts, commonly called the ‘Donatist’ schism and the ‘Arian controversy’, appear prominently in these documents.9 The first rupture addressed by Constantine occurred over a contested election to the episcopal chair of Carthage (c. 312) within a context of tensions since the early third century between rigorist and inclusive traditions among North African Christians.10 This dispute came to Constantine’s attention in a letter dated 15 April 313 from Anulinus, proconsul of Africa.11 Anulinus’ letter—preserved by Augustine of Hippo in one of his own letters from about a century later (c. 406/408) concerning the same controversy—informed the emperor of certain charges brought against Caecilian by supporters of his rival, Majorinus.12 The extant letters associated with Constantinian authorship concerning this schism date between the years 313 and 321, with one dated to 330.13 Two of these (each dating to between June 313 and spring 314) appear in the tenth book of Eusebius of Caesarea’s Ecclesiastical History, along with four others that deal with liberty in religion, financial grants to churches, and releasing Christian clergy from civil obligations.14 Five other letters (dating between 314 and 321) appear as part of a ten-document dossier appended to the end of a polemical work known as Against the Donatists, written by a late fourth-century North African bishop, Optatus of Milevis.15 The so-called ‘Arian controversy’, which erupted in Alexandria, Egypt around the year 318, was another internal church conflict with which Constantine engaged through imperial letters.16 The issue here was rooted in earlier debates about the Son’s divine status in relation to the Father.17 Theological discord burst forth from Alexandria when a Libyan presbyter named Arius—from whom the controversy takes its traditional name—quarrelled openly with the city’s bishop, Alexander. Both men wrote and disseminated letters throughout the East seeking support for their views; thus, mutual hostility between them along with their respective allies widened quickly to affect most of the eastern provinces. Licinius, still ruling at the time as Constantine’s imperial colleague in the East, may have dealt with the problem of increased disunity among eastern Christians by banning all gatherings of bishops between 321 and 323. Having learned of extensive strife in the East shortly after taking over the imperial residence in Nicomedia from the defeated Licinius in autumn 324, Constantine sent Ossius, bishop of Cordoba, to Alexandria with a letter addressed to Alexander and Arius.18 A copy of this letter is attached with several other imperial documents that directly or indirectly concern the same theological conflict to Books 2–4 of the Life of Constantine—a difficult-to-classify work begun by Eusebius of Caesarea after Constantine’s death on 22 May 337 and which was left unfinished by the death of its author around the year 339. The dates for most of the Constantinian

Introduction 3 documents gathered in this work by Eusebius range from the immediate aftermath of Constantine’s attaining sole rule in 324 until around 327 or 328 when the bishop of Caesarea became involved with ecclesiastical bickering in Antioch. However, a few of these letters date as late as the Council of Tyre in 335.19 Eight letters of Constantine, some of which do not appear in any other ancient sources, were collected by Hans-Georg Opitz and published in 1934. These documents deal primarily with imperial pronouncements and judicial decision-making after the Council of Nicaea, and date between June 325 and approximately 333.20 An additional five letters showing the emperor’s continued attempts to manage ecclesiastical divisions after Nicaea appear in the second part of the Apology against the Arians by Athanasius of Alexandria. Athanasius, who in June 328 succeeded Alexander as bishop under questionable circumstances in a contested election, selected and arranged imperial and ecclesiastical documents in order to demonstrate Constantine’s (and later Constantius II’s) support for the ostensible justice of his cause. The five letters under the name of Constantine date between 330 and 335, and contain decisions concerning charges brought against Athanasius by his opponents.21 With such context in mind, the present study aims to provide an in-depth look at Constantine’s surviving correspondence concerning the Donatist schism and ‘Arian controversy’ in order to increase our knowledge of how and why he intervened in matters internal to the churches. What do these letters show that Constantine might have assumed about imperial power when first confronting and subsequently working with others to see these disputes resolved? How did any such assumptions affect his actual use of imperial power regarding the issues that divided his Christian subjects? The first question, on the emperor’s view of his role in relation to ecclesiastical divisions, has a general and seemingly obvious answer: restoring unity was part of Constantine’s imperial duty. But there is little analysis that tries to explain the impact of this emperor’s assumptions upon his decision-making activity. What were these assumptions, specifically? When did they first appear, and where did they come from? How did they develop over time, and change in relation to the different challenges he faced at different points during his reign? This study contends that close examination of the rhetoric in Constantine’s ecclesiastical correspondence reveals three consistently appearing themes that identify this emperor’s main assumptions that directed his use of power in dealing with the divided churches.22 These assumptions, in combination with their function of guiding Constantine’s exercise of imperial authority in relation to the churches, are described as ‘doctrines of power’—individually labelled in the following chapters as the doctrine of divine favour and agency, the doctrine of ecclesiastical unity, and the doctrine of resistance and compromise. My choice of the word ‘doctrine’ is deliberate, and requires some explanation. The term is normally used in Christian theology when, for example, one speaks of the ‘doctrine of the Trinity’ or ‘the doctrine of salvation’.23 That is not how the word is used in this book, which engages in historical rather than theological enquiry. Constantine did not communicate to the divided churches on a theological level, nor in ways that were based in any theoretical

4

Introduction

constructs or preconceived strategies. Rather, he articulated his views in terms of power by expressing what he wanted others to do (or cease doing), why, to what end, and in some cases what consequences might result from failing to comply with his stated wishes. According to what is revealed by analysing Constantine’s rhetoric in these letters, such interactions of this emperor were guided by a set of developing assumptions identified by certain consistencies in his language as he responded to the ecclesiastical conflicts that came to his attention. At the same time, the very frequency with which these themes both appear and regularly function in the imperial correspondence points towards at least a rudimentary level of developing systematisation. Therefore, I use the term ‘doctrine’ to describe a belief, or an assumption, which has a functional purpose but lacks complete, systematic expression. Constantine did not engage with ecclesiastical conflicts fully armed with a ready-made ideology for how to rule as a Christian emperor or do so in relation to the politics of church leadership. Yet his communications with or concerning ecclesiastical communities, individuals, and authorities did contribute to the initial development of such an imperial strategy. Other terms, such as ‘policy’ or ‘rhetorical strategy’, have been suggested. According to the Cambridge Dictionary, a policy is ‘a set of ideas or a plan of what to do in particular situations that has been agreed to officially by a group of people, a business organization, a government, or a political party’. The Monroe Doctrine, outlined by US President James Monroe in an 1823 speech to Congress, was a policy that determined the United States would henceforth regard as offlimits any attempt by a European power to establish or maintain colonies in North and South America. Such use of the word ‘doctrine’ is certainly much closer to the meaning attached to it in this book than its theological definition. However, none of the surviving writings associated with Constantine communicate any general policy for what to do in an unprecedented situation of his own making (i.e., an emperor identifying publicly as a Christian) or when Christians are divided against themselves. What they do indicate, as will be shown through close analysis of the emperor’s letters, are his instinctive assumptions that helped inform his decision-making as he responded with imperial power to internal ecclesiastical problems. The phrase ‘rhetorical strategy’ (or ‘device’) is also quite near in meaning to the way ‘doctrine’ is presently used. A rhetorical strategy in literature, once more according to the Cambridge Dictionary, involves ‘one of four forms of writing and speech: description, exposition, narration, and persuasion’. Command and persuasion are the main functions of Constantine’s letters. To help him achieve these ends, specific rhetorical strategies do indeed appear with regularity in the emperor’s letters. For instance, Chapter 3 discusses two correlating pairs of metaphors—‘madness and reason’ along with ‘sickness and healing’. These pairs of imagery as rhetorical devices contribute to, but do not express by themselves, the emperor’s emerging doctrine of ecclesiastical unity. Rather, his intuitive belief (that the churches should be united) was joined with a purpose (to compel or persuade divided churches to resolve their differences), while each pair of metaphors

Introduction 5 added clarity regarding the specific types of unity Constantine desired to see established given what he viewed as two distinct kinds of discord. Machiavelli’s above-quoted observation about the difficulties of introducing a new order is instructive here—in Constantine’s case, a Roman empire ruled for the first time by an emperor identifying as a Christian. His public profession of Christianity through roughly 25 out of about 30 years as emperor involved a revolutionary change for the position of Christians within Roman society; however, the vast majority of the empire remained non-Christian. But any religious profession of or ‘conversion’ to Christianity did not mean that Constantine innately understood how to rule as a Christian. He drew primarily from imperial rather than Christian sources, and on this basis spoke to problems of ecclesiastical division having already assumed that it was his prerogative and responsibility to do so. He assumed explicitly that the churches ought to be united.24 As the emperor pursued this purpose, he attempted to persuade the bishops’ cooperation rather than coerce their compliance in resolving ecclesiastical divisions. He chose to respect what he understood about church order and the decisions of bishops.25 However, his awareness of such institutions was not based on as fixed or coherent an ideological basis as that of the bishops themselves. This does not mean that episcopal ideology was static or fully developed by the early fourth century, but rather that it was established more firmly than Constantine’s understanding of ecclesiastical systems of organisation and belief.26 On the other hand, while the emperor could draw selectively from resources within the decisions and acts of his imperial predecessors, he had no prior example—and thus, no pre-formulated strategies—that might inform his involvement with the churches’ internal problems of schism and heresy.27 Our only evidence prior to Constantine’s reign of Christians approaching an emperor for help against one of their own comes from the early fourth-century Ecclesiastical History by Eusebius of Caesarea.28 According to Eusebius, Paul of Samosata succeeded Demetrian as bishop of Antioch upon the latter’s death sometime around the year 258. Within a short time, Paul was accused of teaching what some of his colleagues suspected were unacceptably low views of Christ, along with engaging in corruption and other forms of conduct unbecoming a bishop. Synods met at Antioch in 264 and 268, at the latter of which Paul was officially deposed. At this time, the emperor Gallienus (r. 253–268) was assassinated and replaced by Claudius II (r. 268–270), whom an anonymous panegyrist in the year 310 would claim as a dynastic forebear of Constantine.29 Aurelian (r. 270–275) succeeded Claudius, who died from a pandemic that had already devastated the Roman Empire for the previous two decades.30 When Paul refused to give over possession of church property, his opponents petitioned Aurelian for imperial assistance. The emperor, according to Eusebius, ordered the church building to be handed over to those in Antioch with whom the bishops in Rome and Italy would communicate by letter. Constantine could have drawn from Aurelian’s example more than 40 years later by ordering a judicial hearing in Rome to investigate charges against Caecilian under the oversight of the city’s bishop, Miltiades, and three bishops

6

Introduction

from Gaul—Reticius, Maternus, and Marinus.31 In both cases, however, it must be emphasised that neither Aurelian nor Constantine intended to weigh in with imperial authority on any theological issues at stake (supposing either emperor were aware of these). Paul’s opponents invoked Aurelian’s intervention because the deposed bishop refused to vacate the building that they claimed did not belong to him. Their petition was granted because Aurelian viewed the case as a matter of property law.32 Aurelian was neither asked nor did he intervene as emperor in order to make a theological determination. Likewise, the Donatist petition for judges from Gaul to decide their case against the party of Caecilian did not ask for Constantine’s support in a theological matter, nor did he offer it. Scholarly interest in Constantine remains undiminished, despite the vast amount of text written about him—particularly in the last 30 years or so.33 One recent trend among historians has been to de-emphasise the religious policies and concerns of Constantine’s reign. This is an approach that has been taken by, for example, Noel Lenski, David Potter, and John Noël Dillon.34 For Lenski, the ‘Constantinian question’ of the emperor’s faith ‘tends to overshadow the many facets of Constantine and his world that were unrelated or only tangentially related to Christianity and conversion’. Lenski’s goal, without avoiding the issue, is to ‘make it clear that religion, omnipresent though it is’ comprises only one of the subjects explored in his edited volume on Constantine in the Cambridge Companion series.35 According to Potter, the same tendency of trying to avoid over-emphasising religion is reasonable since he believes the emperor sought primarily to gain and exercise more power than anyone else.36 Potter recognises the similarity of his interpretation to that of nineteenth-century Swiss scholar Jacob Burckhardt, who famously wrote of Constantine that in a genius driven without surcease by ambition and love for power there can be no question of Christianity and paganism, of conscious religiosity or irreligiosity; such a man is essentially unreligious, even if he pictures himself standing in the midst of a churchly community.37 While Potter wishes no more than Lenski to avoid entirely the religious aspects related to Constantine, his portrait is (like Lenski) more preoccupied with other characteristics of this emperor’s reign.38 For his part, Dillon accepts that Constantine’s Christianity remains ‘the foremost concern of Constantinian scholarship’ and believes that this will undoubtedly continue being the case.39 However, he points to a number of studies that approach even the religious facets of the emperor from perspectives that do not necessarily reflect religious concerns.40 Dillon declares his own work ‘an essentially secular study’ exploring ‘how the administration of justice functioned under Constantine’.41 Yet there has been plenty left to explore concerning religious issues under Constantine. Harold Drake’s Constantine and the Bishops is a significant contribution to explorations of the emperor’s interactions with ecclesiastical politics.42 Two aspects of that work influence the present study. The first is Drake’s political analysis of the emperor’s involvement with the bishops. This method is

Introduction 7 particularly effective in sorting through Constantine’s apparent shifts in direction when dealing with ecclesiastical disputes after the Council of Nicaea.43 However, the imperial documents describing the same situations at this point later in Constantine’s reign (325–337) are more judicial than political in their language and context. Drake’s other influence on this work is his basic view of Constantine and the bishops themselves. Concerning the bishops, Drake stresses his title’s use of the plural: Constantine did not encounter ‘the bishops’ as a collective and organised unity, but rather as leaders loosely connected with one another by a common tradition and their own willingness to mutually cooperate.44 I have adopted the same perspective. Thus, when I refer in this book to ‘the bishops’ it should be understood that this is not synonymous with ‘the episcopacy’ or ‘church hierarchy’. Regarding Constantine himself, Drake desires to avoid mistaking the ‘Rational Actor’ model as factual: that the changes in church and Roman society associated with Constantine were due to factors involving the emperor as the dominant influence.45 My focus on this emperor’s point of view, therefore, should be taken in a similar fashion—as an important part of all that took place, but not the only or even the most significant driving factor. Timothy Barnes’ Constantine and Eusebius relies heavily, and seeks where necessary to justify such dependence, on both Lactantius and Eusebius of Caesarea as source material for his interpretation of Constantine.46 Averil Cameron criticised this work for favouring ‘a totally Christian Constantine’ at the expense of engaging seriously with sources and arguments describing the emperor as anything less.47 Barnes seems to have anticipated such critical reception, claiming that for much of [Constantine’s] reign a reliable and detailed political narrative ‘cannot be written’ due to a ‘woeful lack of evidence’ for such aspects that are, at least from the modern viewpoint, less directly connected with religion.48 This is due perhaps to his decision to work with the literary evidence, a choice he defends in his most recent monograph on Constantine.49 Partly what makes Barnes’ work so valuable is his skill in analysing written documents in relation to their chronology and provenance, as Cameron herself recognises: ‘There can be no question of [Barnes’] mastery of his chosen materials … The construction of [Barnes’] view of Constantine is firmly traditional, built on source criticism and the close analysis of texts’.50 This book draws on some of the fruits of Barnes’ proficiency in these areas as represented in his New Empire of Diocletian and Constantine, specifically the residences and journeys of Constantine along with his revised chronology of documents related to the Donatist schism.51 Barnes re-iterates with greater polemical force his overall interpretation of the emperor in Constantine: Dynasty, Religion, and Power in the Later Roman Empire, based on work by Kevin Wilkinson that re-dates the epigrams of Palladas to the early fourth century. Relatively few new arguments germane to the present study appear in this later book that are not given in earlier work by Barnes, and so I generally engage with the more detailed information and extended arguments in Constantine and Eusebius. Throughout this study, I tend more towards Drake’s model of toleration and consensus than with Barnes concerning the establishment of a Christian empire during Constantine’s reign.52

8

Introduction

Charles Odahl’s Constantine and the Christian Empire, available in two editions (2003 and 2010, respectively), proposes to fill in some of the gaps left by Barnes in Constantine and Eusebius, claiming a comprehensive use of literary and non-literary source material to produce his ‘detailed biographical narrative’.53 Odahl discusses Constantine’s religious policies in order to show the emperor’s impact on Christianity and the transformation of the empire by the newly established religion.54 Each chapter in Odahl’s work contains a considerable amount of detail and context contributing to a broad, multi-faceted understanding of Constantine’s life and times. However, the analytical approach I have chosen focuses on the emperor’s policies specifically concerning intra-Christian relations rather than more broadly on those involving Christians and pagans.55 Paul Stephenson’s biography of Constantine examines religious aspects of Roman military life in the third and fourth centuries, as well as the army’s role in making or breaking emperors. What connects religion and power, in Stephenson’s view, is a ‘theology of victory’. Constantine could integrate Christianity into a Roman theology of victory by promoting the God worshipped by Christians as the summus deus, the ‘supreme God’ who granted victory.56 Since ‘Christianity to Constantine was the religion of victory’, the emperor’s promotion of this religion served to guarantee the stability of his rule.57 The army accepted this, according to Stephenson, because Christianity was presented to them within a theology of victory: ‘Constantine held himself to be, because he truly believed himself to be, the vehicle for that god’s will, as demonstrated on the field of battle’.58 This may sound similar to how the doctrine of divine favour and agency is described in Chapter 2; however, this book examines the exertion of power in the affairs of the churches as Constantine approached these Christians to see their divisions resolved, rather than exploring how Christianity in general might have served the emperor’s purposes for his empire. Jonathan Bardill’s monograph on Constantine is an extensive study of the emperor’s public persona within a context of Hellenistic traditions of divine kingship.59 Bardill seeks to examine this emperor’s philosophy of rulership and official propaganda in light of his developing profession of Christianity. Extensive use is made of archaeological and other material evidence in addition to literary sources, from which Bardill argues for a Constantine who more clearly followed a solar-based ideology of kingship than any of his predecessors.60 Such use of solar imagery in coins, statuary, imperial ceremony, and visionary narratives enabled the broadest possible range of imperial subjects to accept Constantine’s authority. Even Nicene theology, as Bardill shows in his final chapter, served to make the aspect of imperial cult involving the emperor’s one-ness with divinity potentially acceptable to Christians. One other recent study, also written by Noel Lenski, deserves to be mentioned. In Constantine and the Cities, Lenski questions modern scholarship’s tendency to approach the emperor as a ‘coherent and unified subject’.61 Lenski draws instead on the work of Hans Robert Jauss and Stuart Hall in reception theory to argue for a ‘composite Constantine’, one whose changing assumptions and priorities could be read differently by large numbers of people according to four types

Introduction 9 of social location: dominant, negotiated, oppositional, and professional.62 For Lenski, this approach helps reconcile vastly different portrayals of Constantine in ancient sources—for instance, the hagiography in Eusebius of Caesarea’s Life of Constantine (which would be a ‘dominant’ reading of the emperor) in contrast with Zosimus’ oppositional interpretation. It also resists any inclination of scholars to assume they have uncovered ‘the real Constantine’ beneath all the layers of apologetic, propaganda, and legend. Lenski focuses in this work on how Constantine’s self-presentation (including that of the imperial administration, panegyrists, and others who contributed to a professional reading of the emperor) was received and responded to by various urban-based constituencies. He shows how the emperor’s public image as portrayed on coins, inscriptions, statues, panegyrics, and the emperor’s own words changed significantly over time. According to Lenski, these changes in Constantine’s official persona, which were not the products of strategic planning, involved four phases: legitimate tetrarch (306–310), tyrant-conqueror (310–321), champion of Christianity (321–330), and divine ruler (330–337).63 However, several key aspects of Constantine’s self-representation also remained consistent throughout his reign (even if the manner of their deployment also evolved). These included the notions of light, victory, divine favour, and dynasty—each of which could be adapted for and accepted by Christians or pagans.64 Whereas Lenski’s interest centres on Constantine’s general public image, my attention is given to themes in the emperor’s correspondence where he engages imperial power with Christian divisiveness over beliefs and practices. I also examine these issues from the imperial point of view, whereas Lenski focuses on how that perspective might have been received by the emperor’s subjects. The very small sample of scholarship described above falls into two general categories: broader narrative and focused analysis. I choose the latter approach, and so this work is not presented as a historical narrative or biographical account of Constantine’s reign in its entirety. I assume some basic knowledge on the part of my readers, though I have tried to provide enough background to assist with some of the more detailed aspects of my analysis. Most biographical histories of Constantine broadly approach his lifetime within a larger context of changes affecting the empire throughout the third and fourth centuries. The strength of this approach is that this emperor is understood to be participating in rather than directly responsible for the transformations in late antiquity, such as Christianity’s increasing cultural dominance. He is, so to speak, riding the wave of change rather than driving it onward through the force of his own personality or initiative.65 However, it also raises further questions, the answers to which require a narrower chronological focus. For instance, when Constantine spoke of wanting ecclesiastical unity, what sort of unity did he intend at which points in his reign and related to what types of divisions? The answers to such questions demand that specific sections of time within the emperor’s reign are closely examined, rather than considering a whole lifetime in its historical context. This does not mean that the whole scope of Constantine’s reign or its broader narrative framework is neglected here. On the contrary, understanding such background is vital for

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coming a little closer to understanding this emperor’s perspective within an early fourth-century milieu. I have also chosen to focus on Constantine’s side of the association between imperial throne and episcopal chair, and will not engage with the bishops’ perspectives. Covering both points of view is not feasible in a single work designed as a concentrated, in-depth examination of this emperor’s correspondence on a specific topic. Even so, the attention given to Constantine should not mislead readers into suspecting that I have attributed too central a role to him within the overall history of the later Roman Empire. With the existence of numerous excellent scholarly works on aspects of Constantine and his reign, the need is understandable to explain why another book on the same emperor is warranted. Two factors justify this current study. First, there has not been any focused examination of language in Constantine’s correspondence that explores how particular themes, figures of speech, and other strategies of argument contributed to his engagements with ecclesiastical conflicts.66 These letters are certainly not neglected as source material, since historians often draw information from explicit statements by Constantine in their readings of this emperor that are based more on ancient narratives such as those by Lactantius and Eusebius of Caesarea. However, this book takes account of whole letters rather than selective quotations of isolated statements that refer directly to unity or division among Christians. I also treat the letters themselves, rather than the narratives in which most of these documents are embedded, as my main primary source material for examining Constantine’s declared viewpoints. Through my method of interpreting rhetorical and stylistic features in these letters, which does not rely on any established theoretical models, this study makes three contributions to scholarly discussion of Constantine’s interactions with Christianity. First, it demonstrates the possibility of greater precision in describing the types of ecclesiastical unity desired by this emperor, given his recognition of two distinct kinds of division: schism and heresy. Further, it reveals previously unnoticed connections between language used by Constantine and that employed by some of his imperial predecessors—thus helping modern interpreters disentangle his more paradoxical utterances where, for instance, he spoke harshly yet counselled patience in the same document. However occasionally severe the tone of Constantine’s verbal response, it is clear that for the majority of his reign he would not violently compel Christians to agree when they otherwise could or would not. The possible exception may be the brief period between 317 and 321 during which the Donatists of North Africa experienced repression.67 Thirdly, I demonstrate how Constantine’s approach to handling ecclesiastical divisions changed over time. His victory over Licinius in 324 is relied on as a recognisable signpost, but this is not to be understood as a fixed date for a sudden and complete shift from one main style, tone, theme, or figure of speech to another. Rather, this study shows Constantine’s language to be in a more gradual state of transition between the years 321 and 328 as his tone was characterised increasingly by softer forms of persuasion and compromise rather than an earlier language of command and compliance.

Introduction 11 The second factor justifying this analysis of Constantine’s ecclesiastical correspondence has to do with its unusual chronological scope that mainly covers the years between approximately 312 and 328. This is the period during which Constantine’s understanding and methods of dealing with ecclesiastical controversies initially developed, and it has not received the consideration by historians that it deserves. Each of the three doctrines of imperial power appeared initially in examples of his correspondence around 312–315 and developed in the same chronological order as they are set forth here in each chapter. The doctrine of divine favour and agency emerged earliest in connection with his victory over Maxentius at the Milvian Bridge, and remained a principle factor that motivated and guided his policies on ecclesiastical unity: his concern that any disturbances in worship might provoke divine wrath contributed directly to the development of his doctrine of ecclesiastical unity as he responded to Christian divisions that he viewed as such a threat.68 The doctrine of resistance and compromise surfaced following the failure of imperial and ecclesiastical processes through which Constantine hoped unity would be restored among Christians.69 How these three doctrines developed up through the Council of Nicaea in 325 will be shown in Chapters 2–4. Considered from the emperor’s perspective, Nicaea represented a climax in his efforts to resolve ecclesiastical divisions as he touted its success in the following months while holding to a flexible interpretation of its decisions in a judicial sense until the end of his reign. Chapter 5 continues beyond the Council of Nicaea until the death of Alexander, bishop of Alexandria, in April 328 prior to Athanasius’ disputed election as his successor a couple of months afterwards. This allows us to focus on subsequent developments in Constantine’s approach to theological controversy before his later and more memorable encounters with Athanasius, Arius, and Eusebius of Nicomedia. It also grants the possibility of exploring how Constantine continued dealing with ecclesiastical divisions along both institutional and theological lines. In addition to the so-called ‘Arian controversy’ and the matter of celebrating Easter, this brief interval surrounding the Council of Nicaea included imperial engagement in an intensifying quarrel between Eustathius of Antioch and Eusebius of Caesarea (c. 327–328).70 This dispute, centred in Antioch, was originally a theological disagreement but also came to involve complications regarding that city’s episcopal seat. The conclusion of this dispute in Antioch and Alexander’s death in Alexandria—each occurring in 328—represent the end of initial development in Constantine’s approach to ecclesiastical division in terms of the doctrines of power. The emperor’s final years until his death in 337 are discussed in Chapter 6 relating to how the three doctrines of power continued to function as he sought to handle various disputes that, from his perspective, chiefly concerned Athanasius, Eusebius of Nicomedia, and Arius. With such chronological development in mind, the outline of this study should be relatively straightforward. Chapter 1 sets up the analysis in subsequent chapters by placing these ecclesiastical letters of Constantine in the context of imperial government rather than late antique epistolography. I do not wish to draw too clear a line of separation between the purposes and formal characteristics of these documents, but my interest lies more with their overall function as communicative acts

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of power and less in their essential character as letters. In other words, greater (not exclusive) emphasis is placed on what these letters do than what they are. This chapter also examines the main body of Constantine’s ecclesiastical correspondence in terms of establishing their chronology, reliability, and provenance in addition to questions of authorship. As described above, these documents are mostly to be found embedded in works by Eusebius of Caesarea, Optatus of Milevis, and Athanasius of Alexandria. Others are contained among those ancient documents compiled by Opitz in 1934, and chiefly concern the ‘Arian Controversy’ before and after the Council of Nicaea. Chapters 2–5 constitute the core of this project, analysing prominent themes, figurative language, and persuasive techniques in Constantine’s ecclesiastical correspondence—in this way communication is linked with decision-making activity to define and describe each of the three doctrines of power. Chapter 2 concerns the doctrine of divine favour and agency: Constantine sought to ally himself with the summus deus (‘supreme God’) worshipped by Christians and remained ever after concerned primarily with being seen to rule successfully as the ‘servant of God’ in ways that publicly demonstrated his gratitude as a beneficiary of divine assistance. Arguing for Constantine’s placing a higher premium on divine support over his concern for unity does not suggest an overemphasis on religious above political priorities, since the perception of an emperor’s successful ‘management’ of such favour was key to the recognition of his legitimate rule. Ecclesiastical unity is indeed shown in this correspondence to have been a top priority for Constantine related to Christianity: less for unity’s own sake than because it contributed in his view to ensuring continued divine blessing where this was endangered by divided Christians. Chapter 3, on the doctrine of ecclesiastical unity, reveals more specifically what such unity involved for Constantine in light of his perspective on the different types of divisions among Christians. Understanding the Donatist schism as a local and organisational matter concerning the identification of the rightly elected bishop of Carthage, Constantine expressed the desire that restored ecclesiastical unity should be characterised by institutional uniformity. Following his victory over Licinius in 324, even more widespread strife between Christians greeted Constantine shortly after his arrival in the East. Since the emperor perceived that this dispute centred on speculation over theological rather than structural matters, he communicated his will for renewed ecclesiastical unity in terms of a general harmony that prioritised the preservation of communion while accepting some diversity of belief. Both types of unity—structural uniformity and theological harmony—are revealed through analysis of Constantine’s figurative language in the letters dealing with each rupture in Christian fellowship. Specifically, I will show in this chapter how metaphors of ‘madness and reason’ conveyed the emperor’s determination concerning uniformity of ecclesiastical organisation and practice. I will also demonstrate that imagery suggestive of ‘sickness and healing’ indicated that Constantine would tolerate some differences over details of Christian belief as long as the harmony of brotherhood was kept. But the emperor’s efforts to unite the churches encountered resolute opposition by some groups of Christians. Constantine had to counter such dissent, but

Introduction 13 remained committed to doing so without using force against worshippers of the divinity whose religion he publicly supported. Together, Chapters 4 and 5 identify the doctrine of resistance and compromise, thus revealing the manner by which Constantine continued with his agenda for achieving ecclesiastical unity in light of some Christians’ disinclination to accept it on any terms but their own. The analysis of Constantine’s correspondence combined in these two chapters indicates that while the emperor expected obedience to his lawful will as he dealt with the Donatist schism earlier in his reign, he learned subsequently when confronting the ‘Arian controversy’ to anticipate ecclesiastical resistance and chose immediately to present compromise as the path towards restoring unity. Chapter 4 focuses on the emperor’s response to the Donatist party’s repeated refusal to accept two conciliar decisions favouring their Caecilianist opponents—first in a hearing at Rome in June 313 over which bishops presided (rather than, strictly speaking, a church council), and then at the Council of Arles in late summer 314. In view of Donatist appeals against the decisions of both gatherings, Constantine invoked the theme of ‘obstinacy’ when describing them. Such language evoked earlier imperial attitudes towards Christianity (going back at least to Pliny’s correspondence with the emperor Trajan in the early second century) that entailed persecution. However, Constantine preferred confronting ecclesiastical resistance without resorting to violent coercion. Thus, the emperor demonstrably mitigated the tone of his discourse and activity by the time our evidence shows he first responded to ecclesiastical conflict in the East. Chapter 5 describes Constantine’s use of what are called ‘aesthetic arguments’ to articulate, explain, or justify his commands—the imperative force of which were softened by a vocabulary of possibility.71 By this, I refer to the emperor’s manner of alleviating the coercive power in the tone of a written command by formulating it in terms of potentiality. For example, in the letter to Alexander and Arius, the emperor wrote that it was not his intention to force the two disputants to reconcile; rather, it was ‘possible’ (δύναται) for unity to be preserved among Christians in Alexandria since their disagreement—according to Constantine— centred on insignificant details of belief.72 Another illustration can be found in the emperor’s letter excoriating Eusebius of Nicomedia to the Christians in that imperial city.73 Having indicted the exiled bishop for collusion with Licinius in addition to supporting heresy, Constantine implied that the Christians under Eusebius’ leadership were tainted by similar crimes.74 Rather than explicitly order them to choose another bishop for themselves, the emperor suggested the possibility that such guilt by association could be removed if they were to do so.75 Where the preceding chapters identify each of the three doctrines of power in order of their initial development, Chapter 6 shows that all three continued in their function as Constantine’s main assumptions guiding his use of authority when dealing with further problems involving Christians in conflict. This final chapter examines the application of these doctrines to a number of judicial cases relating to Christians that the emperor dealt with during his last decade or so (325–337). Two ways that the emperor discharged his power—by dispensing justice concerning charges by various ecclesiastical factions surrounding Arius, Eusebius

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Introduction

of Nicomedia, and Athanasius—were to rely on the commanding weight of his physical presence while adhering to a loose, judicial interpretation of Nicaea’s theological decision as a kind of ‘ecclesiastical law’, or an authoritative standard according to which he made his decisions in particular cases. Considered as a whole, this book represents an interpretation of Constantine’s correspondence regarding matters of ecclesiastical conflict. It is also a study of imperial rule through written communication during a particular late Roman reign. But as we approach the questions with which the analysis is mainly concerned—why Constantine intervened with imperial authority in the internal disputes of Christians and how such power was used in these situations—we need to remember that the answers are more complicated than they might appear from a modern viewpoint. Therefore, we would do well to keep three important issues in mind. At the outset, we need to step outside our own modern habit of thinking that strictly separates ‘religious’ from ‘non-religious’ concepts or treats ‘religion’ and ‘politics’ as entirely disconnected spheres. Noel Lenski’s simple, well-articulated words are worth repeating here: ‘Modernist notions of a separation of “church and state”, a parceling out of the cosmos into neatly demarcated political and religious categories, seem implausible in the post-modern world and downright impossible in the ancient’.76 The relation of religion and politics in the ancient world can only be viewed as ‘blended’ from a modern perspective that assumes two separate concepts in the first place. So it should not be at all surprising to find Roman emperors before and after Constantine as enmeshed in matters of religion—including Christianity—as they were in what we think of as political, economic, or military affairs. From the time that Augustus (r. 27 bc–ad 14) assumed the role of pontifex maximus, or high priest of public religion, in 12 bc, the emperors were not simply civil magistrates.77 The very title, ‘Augustus’, signified an especially close association between emperors and divinity, and it was within their power to inaugurate any changes in religion.78 The imperial cult, in which sacrifices were made to or on behalf of emperors and their family members, provided a measure of political coherence and functioned as a display of loyalty by subjects of the empire.79 Thus, emperors and their subjects could increasingly take for granted the possibility or even the need for official intervention in such matters. Secondly, we should remember the significance of the historical situation when Constantine proclaimed his personal identification with Christianity. The unique nature of this event in the history of Christianity and the Roman Empire should not be underestimated. Looking back from a modern vantage point, it might be tempting to view the so-called ‘triumph’ of Christianity as inevitable after winning an adherent on the imperial throne. Yet, this assumes that any emperor who became a Christian would also remain one and that he would always be the kind of Christian most others would willingly support. In the first case, the unexpectedly brief sole reign of Julian (r. 361–363) nevertheless demonstrates that Christians could not always rely on having one of their own at the centre of power. Neither, in the second place, could any particular faction of Christians depend on the consistent orthodoxy (as this would have been understood from the viewpoint of any given group) of a ‘Christian emperor’—as borne out by the history of Roman

Introduction 15 emperors in the fourth century from Constantine onward. Furthermore, what we call the ‘conversion’ of Constantine was not a purely inward, instantaneous change of religious perspective in any modern sense. Rather, I subscribe to a view of conversion in the ancient world as a process of exchanging loyalty in a context of patronage and benefits.80 In other words, Constantine’s knowledge and evident commitment to Christianity increased in relation to what were, for him, positive changes in his political position as decided on various battlefields between 312 and 324. Sometime prior to his famous battle at the Milvian Bridge near Rome against his brother-in-law Maxentius on 28–29 October 312, Constantine called on the summus deus for aid.81 Victory at Rome gave him control of all western provinces—Italy and Africa, which had been ruled by Maxentius for the last six years, now joining the territories of Spain, Gaul, and Britain under Constantine’s authority since the death of his father, Constantius, in 306.82 By the spring or late summer of 314, Constantine publicly identified the summus deus with the God worshipped by Christians.83 Within a few years of defeating Maxentius, Constantine fell out with another brother-in-law, Licinius, who had governed in the East since 308.84 Their uneasy alliance, sealed with the marriage of Constantine’s half-sister Constantia to Licinius at Milan in February 313, crumbled to the point of civil war in 316–317.85 This conflict resulted in a negotiated peace that was nevertheless tilted heavily in Constantine’s favour.86 Seven years later, however, Constantine conclusively defeated Licinius at Chrysopolis (modern Üsküdar, Turkey) on 18 September 324.87 This latter victory placed the whole empire into Constantine’s hands, and the emperor expressed his official gratitude to the God of Christianity in a letter addressed to one of his newly won provinces.88 He had sought the help of a divine patron, and his subsequent experiences on the battlefield against both Maxentius and Licinius demonstrated to all that such benefits were granted. As a result, Constantine owed a permanent debt of gratitude to his chosen divinity that required his careful intervention when the churches experienced deepening divisions.89 Finally, we should consider the politics potentially involved with an emperor who claimed to be a Christian and his place in relation to the churches’ leadership structures. Concerning that claim, I will not discuss the authenticity and depth of Constantine’s personal faith, the real or imagined nature of any visionary experience(s), or attempt to evaluate the purity of his theological orthodoxy. Kate Cooper rightly regards these as ‘dead-end’ arguments for historians: ‘The false division between “politics and “religion” has diverted scholarship into the dead-end of arguing over an anachronistic question, whether or not Constantine was a true believer’.90 I am thus guided throughout this book by Harold Drake’s suggestion that the real question is what kind of Christian this emperor became in a political sense; in other words, what type of Christianity would gain his attention and support?91 To the extent that Constantine understood and proclaimed himself to be a Christian, such a profession would have placed him under a bishop’s authority.92 Along with his public statements identifying himself as a worshipper of the Christian God, the fact that he remained unbaptised until the end of his life

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underlined this theoretical subordination to a bishop’s authority: as a catechumen, he would not be allowed to receive the Eucharist.93 But at the same time, Constantine never ceased being a Roman emperor even while at the same time proclaiming his worship of God according to the rites of Christianity. Therefore, every bishop in the empire remained an imperial subject and it was the emperor’s responsibility (given his preferred form of divine worship) to protect the interests of their religion. The unexpected complications brought forth by questions of who, under such an arrangement, holds greater power under God have troubled us ever since—from battles over theology in the fourth century to the eleventhcentury ‘investiture controversy’ right up to modern debates about the place of religion in public life and national policy.94

Notes 1 William Shakespeare, ‘The Tragedy of Richard III’ in The RSC Shakespeare: Complete Works (Jonathan Bate and Eric Rasmussen, eds.; London: Macmillan, 2007), 1299– 1381 at 1337. 2 Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince (Peter Bondanella and Mark Musa, trans.; Peter Bondanella, ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 20. 3 Oros. 7.28.27–28. For one example of Constantine’s symbolic status, see John D. Roth, ‘Preface’ in Constantine Revisited: Leithart, Yoder, and the Constantinian Debate (John D. Routh, ed.; Eugene: Pickwick, 2013), xi–xiv at xii. 4 For the accession and so-called ‘rise’ of Constantine under Diocletian and Galerius through his victory over Maxentius, see Eutr. 10.1–6; Lactant., De mort. pers. 24–44; Orig. Const. 2.4–4.12; Aur. Vict., Caes. 40; Euseb. Vit. Const. 1.19–36. On Diocletian and the tetrarchy, see Stephen Williams, Diocletian and the Roman Recovery (London: Routledge, 2000); Wolfgang Kuhoff, Diokletian und die Epoche der Tetrarchie: Das römische Reich zwischen Krisenbewältigung und Neuaufbau (284–313 n. CHR.) (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2001); Roger Rees, Diocletian and the Tetrarchy (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004); Bill Leadbetter, Galerius and the Will of Diocletian (London: Routledge, 2009); Frank Kolb, Diocletian und die Erste Tetrarchie: Improvisation oder Experiment in der Organisation monarchischer Herrschaft? (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011). 5 The main accounts in Christian sources connected Constantine’s conversion with his desire to defeat Maxentius. See Lactant., De mort pers. 44.1–12, esp. 44.5; Euseb., Vit. Const. 1.27–32. Zosimus, as a hostile interpreter, described Constantine’s conversion occurring at a later point in relation to his present need to be absolved of guilt in the murders of his wife, Fausta, and his oldest son, Crispus. See Zos. 2.29. 6 For these documents, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24–42, 2.48–60. On Constantine’s civil wars against Licinius, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.3–17; Orig. Const. 5.13–29. See also Timothy Barnes, Constantine: Dynasty, Religion and Power in the Later Roman Empire (Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014), 90–106. 7 This is informed by arguments by Fergus Millar and Clifford Ando concerning interpretive models of imperial government. Millar argued for a passive model, in which the emperor made decisions in response to the petitions received. See Fergus Millar, The Emperor in the Roman World: 31 B.C.–A.D. 337 (London: Duckworth, 1977), 6. Ando recognises the language of command even in imperial communications that were reactive. See Clifford Ando, ‘Petition and Response, Order and Obey: Contemporary Models of Roman Government’ in Governing Ancient Empires: Proceedings of the 3rd to 5th International Conferences of the Research Network Imperium and Officium (Michael Jursa and Stephan Prochazka, eds.; Vienna: Verlag der Österreichen Akademie

Introduction 17 8 9

10

11 12 13 14 15

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der Wissenchaften, forthcoming). I am grateful to Professor Ando for providing this article. For a list of these documents with references, see the Appendix at the end of this work. For discussion on the importance of names in the Donatist conflict, see Jesse A. Hoover, The Donatist Church in an Apocalyptic Age (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 18–24. I follow Hoover by echoing his use of the terms ‘Donatist’ and ‘Caecilianist’. I will not continue using quotation marks around the former term, and the latter is intended to replace the traditional ‘Catholic’ designation. On the phrase ‘Arian controversy’, see R.P.C. Hanson, The Search for the Christian Doctrine of God: The Arian Controversy, A.D. 318–381 (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005 [1988]), xvii–xxi. I use this term in a general and purely descriptive sense for convenience. For this reason, the phrase will appear in quotation marks. Important works on the Donatist schism include W.H.C. Frend, The Donatist Church: A Movement of Protest in Roman North Africa (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1952); Emin Tengström, Donatisten und Katholiken: Sociale, wirtschaftliche und politische Aspecte einer nordafrikanischen Kirchenspaltung, Studia Graeca et Latina Gothoburgensia 18 (Stockholm: Alqvist & Wiksell, 1952); Cées Mertens, ‘Les premiers martyrs et leurs rêves: cohesion de l’histoire et des rêves dans quelques “passions” latins de l’Afrique du Nord’, Revue d’histoire ecclésiastique 81:1 (January 1986), 5–46; Maureen Tilley, The Bible in Christian North Africa: The Donatist World (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1997); The Donatist Schism: Controversy and Contexts (TTHC; Richard Miles, ed.; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2016). For the date of the schism’s origin in relation to the disputed election of Caecilian, see Tilley, Bible in Christian North Africa, 10; W.H.C. Frend and K. Clancy, ‘When Did the Donatist Schism Begin?’, JThS 28:1 (April 1977), 104–109. Also, see Frend, The Donatist Church, 112–140 for excellent analysis of factional tensions in North African Christianity prior to the year 312. For this letter, see August., Ep. 88.2. The date is given in its text. On the proconsul of Africa at this time, see ‘Anullinus 2’ in PLRE 78–79. For the date of Augustine’s letter, in which Anulinus’ letter to Constantine appears as a quotation or attached copy, see Augustine: Political Writings (E.M. Atkins and R.J. Dodaro, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 144. See pp. 58, 60–62, 65–68 in this volume. For these six letters, see Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5–7. The two letters referred to here are found in Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18–20 and 10.5.21–24. Opt., App. 3, 5–7, 9. A sixth document attached to this dossier as App. 10 contains the date of 5 February in its text, while the place from which it was written is also given as Serdica. The year 330 is given by Barnes. See Timothy Barnes, The New Empire of Diocletian and Constantine (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1982), 247. Some works on the ‘Arian controversy’ include Hanson, Search for Christian Doctrine (see n9 above for full reference); Annik Martin, Athanase d’Alexandrie et l’Église d’Égypte au ive siècle (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1996); Rowan Williams, Arius: Heresy and Tradition (2nd edn.; London: SCM Press, 2001); Lewis Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); Sara Parvis, Marcellus of Ancyra and the Lost Years of the Arian Controversy, 325–345 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); David M. Gwynn, The Eusebians: The Polemic of Athanasius of Alexandria and the Construction of the ‘Arian Controversy’ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); Die Synoden im trinitarischen Streit: Über die Etablierung eines synodalen Verfahrens und die Probleme seiner Anwendung im 4. und 5. Jahrhundert (Uta Heil and Annette von Stockhausen, eds.; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017). Hanson, Search for Christian Doctrine, 60–98; Ayers, Nicaea and Its Legacy, 12, 20–40. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.64–72.

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Introduction

19 See pp. 47, 210–212 in this volume. 20 Hans-Georg Opitz, Athanasius Werke 3.1: Urkunden zur Geschichte des Arianischen Streites (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1934). See also Dokumente zur Geschichte des Arianischen Streites (Hanns Christoff Brenneke, Uta Heil, Annette von Stockhausen, and Angelika Wintjes, eds.; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2007). 21 Hans-Georg Opitz, Athanasius Werke 2: Erster Teil: Die Apologien, Lfg. 1-7 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1935–1941). 22 Concerning rhetoric and the use of such terminology in this study, I have worked according to a description by George Kennedy where it has to do with ‘techniques of persuasion’ in oral or written speech. His description of what is called ‘secondary rhetoric’, which concerns written discourse (including such figurative language as contained in much of my analysis), seems quite appropriate to Constantine’s correspondence where explicit ideas are ‘emphasized or made vivid’ and his ‘education, eloquence or skill’ is shown to contribute towards the persuasive purposes of such communication. It is also worth remembering that in a Graeco-Roman context, ‘persuasion’ can include the threat or actual use of force or through symbolic means such as words or gestures. This, too, fits with the nature of Constantine’s correspondence as we have it, in which some of his letters threaten force and others resort to more artful forms of verbal persuasion. See George A. Kennedy, Classical Rhetoric and Its Christian and Secular Tradition from Ancient to Modern Times (2nd edn.; Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999), 1–5. 23 See K.D. Stanglin, ‘Doctrine’ in Global Dictionary of Theology (William A. Dyrness and Veli-Matti Kärkkäinen, eds.; Nottingham: InterVarsity Press, 2008), 239–240. 24 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.22. 25 Opt., App. 5. 26 On the development of early Christian episcopal ideology, see Hans von Campenhausen, Ecclesiastical Authority and Spiritual Power in the Church of the First Three Centuries (John Austin Baker, trans.; Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1969); Gerald P. Fogerty, Patterns of Episcopal Leadership (New York: Macmillan, 1989); David Horrell, ‘Leadership Patterns and the Development of Ideology in Early Christianity’, Sociology of Religion 58:4 (Winter 1997), 323–341; Claudia Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity: The Nature of Christian Leadership in an Age of Transition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005); Carlos R. Galvão-Sobrinho, Doctrine and Power: Theological Controversy and Christian Leadership in the Later Roman Empire (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013). 27 Clifford Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 374–378. 28 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.27–30.23; Robert L. Sample, ‘The Christology of the Council of Antioch (268 C.E.) Reconsidered’, Church History 48:1 (March 1979), 18–26; U.M. Lang, ‘The Christological Controversy at the Synod of Antioch in 268/9’, JThS 51:1 (April 2000), 54–80; Fergus Millar, ‘Paul of Samosata, Zenobia, and Aurelian: The Church, Local Culture, and Political Allegiance in Third-Century Syria’ in Rome, The Greek World, and the East, Vol. 3: The Greek World, The Jews, and the East (Hannah M. Cotton and Guy M. Rodgers, eds.; Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006), 243–274; Dragoș Andrei Giulea, ‘Antioch 268 and Its Legacy in the Fourth-Century Theological Debates’, Harvard Theological Review 111:2 (April 2018), 192–215. 29 For the panegyrical declaration of Claudius II as an ancestor of Constantine, see Lat. Pan. 6.2.1–5. 30 Alaric Watson, Aurelian and the Third Century (London: Routledge, 2004), 45–48; Kyle Harper, The Fate of Rome: Climate, Disease, and the End of an Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2019), 119–159. 31 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.30.18–19; cf. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.19; Opt., De schism donatist. 1.22–23.

Introduction 19 32 On Roman law in relation to judicial decision-making throughout the empire, see Andrew M. Riggsby, Roman Law and the Legal World of the Romans (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 221–223. 33 For surveys of the evidence and scholarship, see Bruno Bleckmann, ‘Sources for the History of Constantine’ in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Constantine (Noel Lenski, trans. and ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 14–31; Charles Odahl, Constantine and the Christian Empire (2nd edn.; London: Routledge, 2013), 1–14; Barnes, Constantine, 1–26. 34 See Noel Lenski, ‘Introduction’ in Cambridge Companion to Constantine (Lenski, ed.), 1–14 at 10–11; David Potter, Constantine the Emperor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 3–4; John Noël Dillon, The Justice of Constantine: Law, Communication, and Control (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2012), 3–5. 35 Lenski, ‘Introduction’ in Cambridge Companion to Constantine (Lenski, ed.), 10. 36 Potter, Constantine, 3. 37 Potter, Constantine, 296–297; Jacob Burckhardt, The Age of Constantine the Great (Moses Hadas, trans.; New York, Pantheon, 1949 [1853]), 292. 38 Potter, Constantine, 297–299. 39 Dillon, Justice of Constantine, 2. 40 Dillon, Justice of Constantine, 3–5. 41 Dillon, Justice of Constantine, 5. 42 Harold A. Drake, Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000). 43 See Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 250–272, 309–352. 44 Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 27–28. 45 Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 24–27. 46 For his discussion of Lactantius, see Timothy Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981), 12–14; cf. Barnes, Constantine, 4, 6–9. 73–74. For Barnes’ views on the Ecclesiastical History and Life of Constantine, see Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 126–147, 261–275; cf. Barnes, Constantine, 9–16. 47 Averil Cameron, ‘Constantinus Christianus’, JRS 73 (1983), 184–190 at 186. 48 Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 274–275. 49 Barnes, Constantine, 16–26, esp. 17. Barnes’ defence is that ‘inferences’ made from coins and inscriptions about the ‘mind and beliefs’ of Constantine are ‘extremely insecure’, unlike the literary evidence in, for instance, a letter in the emperor’s name. 50 Cameron, ‘Constantinus Christianus’, 190. 51 Barnes, New Empire, 68–80 (residences and journeys), 238–247 (Donatist schism). 52 See Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 208–212; cf. Barnes, Constantine, 107–111. See also Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 235–272. 53 See n33 above for full reference. Citations of Odahl are from the paperback version of the second edition, published in 2013 by Routledge. Odahl agrees with Barnes’ conclusion regarding Constantine’s sense of being divinely called to convert the empire to Christianity. See Odahl, Constantine, 286; cf. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 275. 54 Odahl, Constantine, ix, 14. I take a more nuanced view regarding the ‘Christian empire’ and ‘establishment’ of Christianity under Constantine than these descriptions imply. 55 I follow Robin Lane Fox in using ‘pagan’ as a broad reference to imperial citizens who were neither Christian nor Jewish, although this distinction should not be understood on the basis of monotheism. See Robin Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians in the Mediterranean World from the Second Century to the Conversion of Constantine (2nd edn.; New York: Penguin, 2006), 30–35. 56 Paul Stephenson, Constantine: Unconquered Emperor, Christian Victor (London: Quercus, 2011), 7. 57 Stephenson, Constantine, 9. 58 Stephenson, Constantine, 9.

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59 Jonathan Bardill, Constantine: Divine Emperor of the Christian Golden Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 60 Bardill, Constantine, 2. 61 Noel Lenski, Constantine and the Cities: Imperial Authority and Civic Politics (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016), 6. 62 Lenski, Constantine and the Cities, 6–12. See also Hans Robert Jauss, Toward an Aesthetic of Reception (Timothy Bahti, trans.; Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1982); Stuart Hall, ‘Encoding/Decoding’ in Culture, Media, Language: Working Papers in Cultural Studies, 1972–79 (Stuart Hall, Dorothy Hobson, Andrew Lowe and Paul Willis, eds.; London: Routledge, 1980), 117–127. 63 Lenski, Constantine and the Cities, 27–47. 64 Lenski, Constantine and the Cities, 48–66. 65 This does not mean that Constantine was not responsible for his communicated decisions or the actions he took in committing his power to internal ecclesiastical affairs (interventions which proved momentous for transformations in church and empire throughout late antiquity and which remain consequential into modern times). 66 I know of only one study that engages with the use of metaphor in Constantine’s language, for which, see Allison K. Ralph, ‘Metaphors of Sickness and the Social Body in the Constantinian Era’, PhD diss., Catholic University of America (2016). However, the present work differs in several respects. For example, I deal exclusively with Constantine while Ralph includes Constantius II and his brothers, Constantine II and Constans. Ralph interprets Constantine’s correspondence through the lens of a ‘social body’ metaphor, while I have examined these documents from the perspective of enquiry concerning this emperor’s use of power. Additionally, Ralph includes the cosmic order under the ‘social body’ metaphor; however, while there are ‘heavenly bodies’ as constituent parts, I argue for an interpretation of the whole system in terms of a rational order instead of a social body. Furthermore, Ralph combines Constantine’s ‘madness and reason’ rhetoric with his discourse of ‘sickness and healing’. In my view, this assumes a modern view of insanity in terms of ‘mental illness’, which I do not believe reflects how madness was understood in the fourth century or as it is used in Constantine’s language. On these issues, see Ralph, ‘Metaphors of Sickness’, 156–164; cf. pp. 104–106 in this volume. 67 Critical questions are raised in Chapter 2 regarding the assumption of Constantine’s direct responsibility for the slaughter of a gathered Donatist congregation in 317. 68 For Constantine’s views concerning ecclesiastical division and divine wrath, see pp. 71–73, 79–83 in this volume. Concerning Lactantius’ influence, I am convinced primarily by the perspectives of Elizabeth De Palma Digeser and Noel Lenski. See Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, The Making of a Christian Empire: Lactantius and Rome (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000), 115–144; Noel Lenski, ‘Evoking the Pagan Past: Instinctu Divinitatis and Constantine’, Journal of Late Antiquity 1:2 (Fall 2008), 204– 257 at 225. Regarding Ossius of Cordoba’s influence, see Henry Chadwick, ‘Ossius of Cordova and the Presidency of the Council of Antioch, 325’, JThS 9:2 (October 1958), 292–304 at 295–296; Charles Odahl, ‘God and Constantine: Divine Sanction for Imperial Rule in the First Christian Emperor’s Early Letters and Art’, Catholic Historical Review 81:3 (July 1995), 327–352 at 332–333. 69 See Chapters 4–5 in this volume. 70 Concerning this dispute, see pp. 174–177 in this volume. 71 For my use of the term ‘aesthetic argument’ as well as discussion concerning the structure of such arguments, see pp. 157–162 in this volume. 72 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.71.6. 73 Opitz, Urk. 27. 74 Opitz, Urk. 27.9–11. 75 Opitz, Urk 27.12.

Introduction 21 76 Noel Lenski, ‘Introduction’ in Power and Religion in Late Antiquity (Andrew Cain and Noel Lenski, eds.; London: Routledge, 2018), 10. 77 Alan Cameron, ‘Imperial Pontifex’, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 103 (2007), 341–384. 78 Suet., Aug. 7, 58; Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (Alan Shapiro, trans.; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1990), 98–100. 79 On the imperial cult, see S.R.F. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984); Richard Gordon, ‘The Roman Imperial Cult and the Question of Power’ in Raising the Eyebrow: John Onians and World Art Studies (Lauren Golden, ed.; Oxford: Archaeopress, 2001), 107–122; Emily A. Hemelrijk, ‘Local Empresses: Priestesses of the Imperial Cult in the Cities of the Latin West’, Phoenix 61:3/4 (Fall/Winter 2007), 318–349; Candace Weddle, ‘The Sensory Experience of Blood Sacrifice in the Roman Imperial Cult’ in Making Senses of the Past: Toward a Sensory Archaeology (Jo Day, ed.; Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2013), 137–159; Gwynaeth McIntyre, Imperial Cult (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 65–70. See also Marianne Bergmann, Die Strahlen der Herrscher: Theomorphes Herrscherbild und politische Symbolik im Hellenismus und in der römischen Kaiserzeit (Mainz: Von Zabern, 1998); Uta-Maria Liertz, Kult und Kaiser: Studien zu Kaiserkult und Kaiserverehrung in den germanischen Provinzen und in Gallia Belgica zur römischen Kaiserzeit (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 1998); Manfred Clauss, Kaiser und Gott: Herrscherkult im römischen Reich (Leipzig: K.G. Saur, 2001). 80 As expressed in Zeba A. Crook, Reconceptualising Conversion: Patronage, Loyalty, and Conversion in the Religions of the Ancient Mediterranean (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2004), 199–250. 81 Peter Weiss, ‘Die Vision Constantins’ in Colloquium aus Anlaß des 80. Geburtstages von Alfred Heuß (Jochen Bleicken, ed.; Kallmünz: Laßleben, 1993), 143–169; Barbara Saylor Rodgers, ‘Constantine’s Pagan Vision’, Byzantion 50:1 (1980), 259–278; Raymond Van Dam, Remembering Constantine at the Milvian Bridge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 2–14. 82 On these divisions of imperial territory at this time, see Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 26–27, 44–45. 83 Bardill, Constantine, 273; Klaus Girardet, ‘Ein spätaniker “Sonnenkönig als Christ”’, Göttinger Forum für Altertumwissenschaft 16 (2013), 371–381. 84 See Orig. Const. 5.13–15; Lactant., De mort. pers. 29.1–2; Zos. 2.10.4–18.1. That Licinius should rule as Augustus in the West was determined at the conference in Carnuntum (in eastern Austria) on 11 November 308. The conference involved the reigning emperors Galerius and Maximian, along with Diocletian (who briefly came out of retirement). Licinius was confirmed at this conference to succeed Severus, who had been selected during the dual abdication ceremonies of Diocletian and Maximian in 305 as Constantius’ successor. Severus had been executed in the spring of 307 after losing a brief civil war against Maximian and his son, Maxentius. However, Licinius never went farther west than the province of Illyricum until after Galerius’ death in April 311, when he and the Caesar Maximinus Daia came into conflict over rule of the East. Licinius defeated Daia on 30 April 313, gaining mastery of the East as Constantine had earlier acquired control in the West. 85 On this chronology, see Timothy Barnes, ‘Lactantius and Constantine’, JRS 63 (1973), 29–46 at 36–38. 86 Orig. Const. 5.16–18. 87 Orig. Const. 5.23–28; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.4. 88 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24.1, 2.24.42. 89 John Nicols, Civic Patterns of Patronage in the Roman Empire (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 127.

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90 Kate Cooper, ‘Constantine the Populist’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 27:2 (Summer 2019), 241–270 at 243. 91 Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 188n53, 200–201. 92 See Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.10.1–5 for Eusebius’ description of Constantine’s public display of deference to the bishops at the opening of the Council of Nicaea in 325; cf. Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 104–110; Peter J. Leithart, Defending Constantine: The Twilight of an Empire and the Dawn of Christendom (Downers Grove: Intervarsity Press, 2010), 149–150. 93 Didache 9.5; Tert., De bapt. 18. 94 Works on historical church-state relations include Brian Tierney, The Crisis of Church and State, 1050–1300 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1988); Matthew Scherer, Beyond Church and State: Democracy, Secularism, and Conversion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). See also Jürgen Habermas, ‘Religion in the Public Sphere’, European Journal of Philosophy 14 (2006), 1–25.

1

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts

The ancient sources present Constantine’s story as a dramatic tale of unlikely survival, conquest, and transformation. His life and reign, according to Christian contemporaries like Lactantius or Eusebius of Caesarea, formed part of a divine plan directed by God’s providence.1 Writing around two centuries later, the pagan Zosimus treated much of Constantine’s accomplishments as products of oathbreaking and barely contained cruelty.2 Aurelius Victor and Eutropius, in their short accounts (dated to about 361 and 369, respectively), expressed cautious appreciation of Constantine’s political and military achievements while generally ignoring anything to do with religion under his regime.3 Some of the details lacking in the above narratives concerning this emperor’s reign prior to 312 are provided by the anonymous Origo Constantini, which was likely composed in the mid-fourth century.4 A few further historical particulars—such as Constantine’s marriage to his second wife Fausta in 307 and his changing political relationship with his father-in-law Maximian between 308 and 310—are yielded by a careful reading of relevant speeches collected in the Panegyrici Latini.5 Coins, inscriptions, and archaeological data comprise necessary supplements to such textual evidence.6 However, I have chosen to focus on a specific type of literary documentation for this study’s purposes. Constantine’s primary means of addressing ecclesiastical disputes was through written letters—part of the imperial system of governing by correspondence.7 These documents provide the emperor’s stated perspectives on some of the challenges and changes with which he engaged concerning Christianity, particularly their internal conflicts. Since such letters were of greater interest to Christians than to others, this correspondence is preserved for us only in Christian sources. These were included to serve the purposes of the Christian authors in whose works they appeared, but are less likely to have been altered than much of the legislation contained in the Theodosian Code, including surviving laws of Constantine. These statutes were significantly modified from their original forms during the process of codification between the years 429 and 439 under the emperor Theodosius II (r. 401–450).8 One of these changes, according to Theodosius’ law establishing procedures for compilation, had to do with cutting the language of each ordinance to its essential form.9 This meant stripping imperial pronouncements of such rhetoric and ornate language that did not explicitly DOI: 10.4324/9781003215677-2

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communicate an emperor’s core directive. John Matthews expressed disappointment at the omission of this language.10 Such editing was not for the purpose of removing what Matthews calls ‘extraneous’ or ‘superfluous wording’, but was intended (as shown in the senatorial record of ceremonial proceedings attached to modern editions of the Code) as part of an overall effort to make this body of legislation more orderly.11 Not only did the stricken language assist with communicating the strength of an imperative (as noted by Matthews), but it could also contribute towards expressing more precisely what the command required and make the recipient further amenable to persuasion.12 Therefore, since the epistolary forms of Constantine’s written communication are more complete than the codified examples of his legislation, we must rely mainly on the former if we are to gain greater insight into how and why he used his power in ecclesiastical conflicts. Most of this emperor’s surviving letters concern what are often called the Donatist schism and ‘Arian controversy’. These documents are found in five collections examined here for their usefulness and limitations in describing Constantine’s approach to these disputes.13 The largest number of imperial documents are embedded in two works by Eusebius of Caesarea—the Ecclesiastical History and The Life of Constantine—and included with a dossier of documents attached to the end of Against the Donatists, a polemical treatise written by Optatus of Milevis.14 An additional, smaller number of relevant documents are added to the second half of Athanasius of Alexandria’s Apology Against the Arians, and an important compilation of correspondence gathered from various ancient sources and published in 1934 by German scholar Hans-Georg Opitz.15 This latter collection provides critical texts of surviving manuscripts in Greek, Latin, and Syriac, and is used for the convenience of locating these documents in one place.16 Each collection of documents is discussed here in rough chronological order according to the events they describe. Following brief consideration of key issues related to the sources in which these letters appear, I will set Constantine’s correspondence in the context of imperial government as authoritative written expressions of the emperor’s will. I will then deal with pertinent material from the documents themselves. Six letters of Constantine embedded consecutively in Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History will be dealt with first since these involve Constantine’s favour towards the churches between 312 and 314. Six more letters attached to Optatus’ Against the Donatists relate to events connected with the schism in North Africa between 314 and 321 (with a single document dating to 330). Next, Constantine’s letters concerning ecclesiastical conflicts found in Eusebius’ other famous work, The Life of Constantine, will bring us from late 324 until about the year 328 with the exception of one letter dealing with the Council of Tyre in 335. Finally, relevant imperial documents included in the second part of Athanasius’ Apology and others assembled by Opitz generally date from 325 after the Council of Nicaea until 336.

Key issues with primary sources As mentioned above, three issues need to be briefly covered prior to discussing the usefulness and limitations of these letters as primary sources. First, what is

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 25 the dominant perspective of the ancient works to which each letter was attached? Why did the authors of these works select particular letters for inclusion, and what purpose might have been served? These are important questions, because we need to consider the possible influence upon or modification of any letters purporting to be written in Constantine’s name which appear in writings that come with a clear agenda. Second, this chapter does not discuss all the imperial correspondence referred to in the rest of the book; therefore, it is necessary to explain the selection of documents for specific discussion here. Third, the attentive reader will note that the one surviving speech of Constantine, the Oration to the Assembly of the Saints, is excluded from discussion in this chapter. Given the length of this address and what it asserts about the emperor’s association with Christianity, it is important to explain why it is relatively marginal to this study’s purpose. Constantine’s letters as supportive of dominant viewpoints Each of the letters analysed in this chapter and throughout the book has come down to us attached to larger works written from particular points of view with specific aims. The authors were all Christians of the type that eventually laid successful claim to being ‘orthodox’ or ‘Catholic’ in competition with various rivals. Much of what we know about Constantine is found in sources reflecting these dominant perspectives, enabling us to see what might not otherwise be understood about his involvement with ecclesiastical politics. On the other hand, only those imperial documents are included in these sources that support the purposes and outlook of their respective authors. We should be aware that these writings and the letters associated with Constantine contained in them tell us much—in some cases, a little more than the author who preserved them intended—but not everything. Sources representing viewpoints ultimately disregarded from a mainstream Christian perspective as ‘pagan’, ‘heretical’, or ‘schismatic’ are vital for providing us with a fuller range of interpretations.17 But pagan historians of Constantine’s reign generally did not concern themselves with internal conflicts among Christians. Ammianus Marcellinus, a pagan author from the later fourth century, does refer to a contest between Damasus and Ursinus for the episcopal chair of Rome in 366.18 Ammianus described the involvement of Viventius, praefectus urbis Romae (‘prefect of the city of Rome’), who was unable to subdue increasing violence between partisans of Damasus and Ursinus.19 However, Ammianus does not describe the western emperor Valentinian (r. ad 364–375) ever becoming involved as he campaigned beyond the Rhine at the time.20 Any imperial documents at one time held by parties deemed schismatic or heretical have been lost, though their existence was attested by the bishop Augustine and church historian Socrates of Constantinople.21 Closing a long letter to five named individuals associated with the Donatists, Augustine acknowledged that both sides in this schism possessed supporting documentation.22 There is no reference here to any letters by an emperor, but we can infer these were included among other documents retained by each faction since Augustine accepted the potential persuasive power of the manuscripts held even by his opponents. Socrates, who

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wrote his ecclesiastical history within 50 years after Augustine had written his letter, discussed events surrounding the rival councils of Ariminum and Seleucia (359).23 Socrates’ description of the Council of Seleucia (2.39) refers to an edict of Constantius II convening the synod as well as imperial letters that contributed to confusion over whether theological or ethical issues ought to be taken up first. We cannot know for certain from Augustine’s letter whether any of the documents in the hands of his opponents originated with Constantine. If so, Augustine based his narrative only on those letters supporting the Caecilianist cause. None of these are quoted in this letter of the bishop, and his narrative can be reconstructed from the letters of Constantine that will be discussed below. The letters referred to by Socrates derived explicitly from a son of Constantine, and are not subject to analysis within this study’s focus. So we must rely mostly on the material preserved by Christian authors within the victorious traditions. On this point, it will be important to distinguish the documents considered in this book from each of the larger works in which they appear. But the next matter to be discussed concerns selection of particular imperial letters dealt with in this chapter and the book as a whole. Selection of Constantinian documents for analysis Such selection is based on two limiting factors. The first consideration is my focus on the years 312–328. Not only is this the period during which Constantine’s awareness and means of contending with ecclesiastical conflicts developed initially, but the largest number of available documents are dated within this chronological range. The other deciding factor concerns each letter’s relevance to imperial intervention in ecclesiastical affairs. For example, I have omitted five letters that touched upon matters relevant to Christians. In a letter that is by turns boastful, cordial, and threatening in its tone, Constantine wrote asking Shapur II, king of Persia (ad 309– 379), to take good care of those Christians within his domains.24 The emperor’s first letter to Macarius of Jerusalem ordered this bishop to build the basilica that became known as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, while a second communication (addressed also to other bishops in Palestine) commanded the construction of a church at Mamre which was to be cleared of pagan associations.25 Two out of four surviving letters addressed to Eusebius of Caesarea praised the bishop for his scholarship and requested him to oversee the production of 50 copies of Scripture to be used in Christian worship.26 Since none of these examples have anything to do with ecclesiastical conflicts, they are excluded from analysis. However, I have included the so-called ‘edict of Milan’ and two letters announcing Constantine’s policies to the eastern provinces following his victory over Licinius.27 These three documents were selected despite their lack of explicit relevance to the subject of divisions among Christians because their declarations of imperial favour had the unintentional effect of bringing these disputes to his attention. Omission of Constantine’s Oration The final matter to be explained in this first section deals with what could otherwise be viewed as a significant omission. The only full-length speech by Constantine

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 27 available to us, known as The Oration to the Assembly of the Saints, was attached as a copy by Eusebius of Caesarea to the end of his Life of Constantine.28 I have decided against including the Oration as a major source in this study, partly for the reason that no part of it demonstrably alludes to anything related to ecclesiastical controversies or the emperor’s view of his own role in confronting these issues. This decision is also grounded on the lack of scholarly consensus regarding its date and location of delivery.29 Some have tried to dissect the Oration’s so-called ‘Arian’ passages.30 If the emperor’s theology in this speech could be clearly established as ‘Arian’, it would show him taking a definite side in the conflict—making the Oration a highly relevant document for the present study. However, aside from the problematic nature of describing ‘Arian’ theology, this label’s accuracy would depend on resolving lingering doubts about its date (which would also be resolved if its location could be settled).31 This makes it difficult to use the Oration as a means of determining what Constantine wanted or believed in relation to Christianity at any given point. The letters themselves, which do not have the same problems of dating, are more useful in this regard. Therefore, where the book refers as necessary to the Oration, none of that discussion is connected with or dependent on a particular date for this speech. In other words, I do not ignore or entirely exclude the Oration from analysis in subsequent chapters, but its use is limited to comparisons of its language with the type of discourse and imagery we find in his correspondence.

Imperial correspondence prior to Constantine’s reign Ancient letter-writing has received considerable attention in the last 20 years or so with a shift in scholarly focus from mining these documents for historical information to treating them as literary documents.32 Those who work with ancient correspondence in classical or late antiquity tend to focus on the letters either of emperors or their elite, educated subjects.33 Yet Constantine’s letters still do not receive the focused attention they deserve. The letters of high-ranking individuals such as Cicero (106 bc–ad 43) and Pliny the Younger (ad 61–c. 112) served exemplary purposes for Libanius (c. 314–393) and Symmachus (c. 340–402), each of whose epistolary compendia were imitated by pagans and Christians in what is called a ‘golden age’ of such compiled writings in late antiquity after the fourth century.34 Some studies look at correspondence between emperors and subjects, such as the rhetorician Marcus Cornelius Fronto (c. 100–167) and his imperial pupil Marcus Aurelius (r. 161–180).35 But that emperor’s letters addressed to Fronto are generally of a more private or literary nature than what we have of Constantine’s correspondence. It is, of course, important not to be too strict about distinguishing between ‘public’ and ‘private’—as well as ‘literary’ or ‘nonliterary’—letters, particularly those written to or by Roman emperors.36 Such clear distinctions are difficult to make when examining, for instance, the letters of Julian, since even the so-called private letters of an emperor could be copied and circulated widely during his own lifetime.37 Standing in contrast to the correspondence of Marcus Aurelius and Julian are letters of Trajan (r. 98–117) and

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his successor Hadrian (r. 117–138). Trajan’s replies to Pliny, preserved among the latter’s collected letters, are rather brief and formal in tone: they simply provide authoritative guidance and judgements concerning specific issues brought to the emperor’s attention by Pliny as governor of Bithynia.38 Two letters attributed to Hadrian are each of a length comparable to some of Constantine’s, but are more similar to those of Trajan in the plain-ness of their language.39 However, I am less interested in treating the Constantinian correspondence for what they are as letters than their intended function as expressions of the emperor’s authority. When this emperor’s surviving correspondence is considered as a whole, it is evident their primary purpose was to communicate imperial decisions and thus to exercise power in particular situations. Most of these letters were addressed to various bishops or provincial governors concerning religion under the first emperor to support and identify with Christianity. Such affairs included protection and favour towards Christians, relative toleration for traditional practices (with the notable exception of blood sacrifice), and attempts to settle internal conflicts among Christian communities or leaders. What we possess of Constantine’s correspondence is due to their use and re-use over the centuries as documents to which appeal could be made in ecclesiastical disputes: an emperor’s position at the centre of power, along with the status of his spoken or written pronouncements by the second century as legally binding (even sacred by the late third or early fourth centuries) invested imperial correspondence with great authoritative significance.40 For these reasons, though I do not neglect issues of form, I emphasise the function of imperial correspondence within the operations of Roman governance as the following sections will show. Role and models of imperial communication Written communication was critical to the Roman Empire’s functioning, given its vast geographical extent, the dangers and slowness of travel, and the demands of time on an emperor or his administration by a diverse and numerous populace.41 For example, laws decreed in the capital had to be made public in the provinces, and it was necessary for officials to communicate with the emperor about difficult cases.42 An emperor also needed to know what was going on, and be able to respond quickly to events such as invasions into Roman-held territories, civil disturbances in the cities, or the proclamation of a potential usurper by rebellious troops. Emperors were the formal centre of communication in the empire. In addition to communications from senators and provincial governors, for example, embassies from the cities, delegations from interest groups such as the Jews, and individual suppliants routinely interacted with an emperor by seeking justice, benefits, immunities, and other privileges or interventions.43 Emperors were most readily approachable through what the late Fergus Millar called a system of ‘petition and response’.44 With roots in Hellenistic ideals of kingship, this method of contact between rulers and subjects meant that an emperor became the object of requests from potentially every social rank and corner of the empire.45 Those with formal petitions were generally expected to present their wishes or concerns

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 29 in person, either themselves or through a representative.46 Participants in these delegations eventually attended a reception ceremony in the emperor’s presence when, perhaps after lengthy delays, a written imperial reply would be given and later publicly inscribed at the city of the embassy’s origin.47 Millar’s masterful use of an incredible array of literary evidence to present a reactive model of imperial government is quite persuasive. Three more recent models—represented here by Clifford Ando, Raymond Van Dam, and Christopher Kelly—acknowledge Millar’s passive interpretation while highlighting the simultaneous presence of more active approaches. Ando presents a model of ‘consensus’, according to which he describes the Romans’ successful dominance of vast territory during a long period of time as due to their recognition of dependence on the provincials’ willingness to accept the validity of hegemonic utterances and representations.48 Ando elsewhere brings focus to even more active aspects of imperial government by pointing to the language of command in official communications that included responses to petitions as well as edicts and other types of legislation.49 Kelly’s model of increased centralisation brings attention to the growth of imperial bureaucracy in terms of size and influence, so that by the sixth century an emperor’s power was both strengthened and weakened as a result. To effectively rule, according to this view, an emperor had to rely on his officials while protecting his own authority by constantly asserting their dependence on him: a well-ordered, smoothly operating administrative apparatus was essential but also threatening to an emperor’s power.50 Van Dam presents active and passive factors of imperial rule under Constantine as a ‘dialogue’, in which petitioners from the cities of Hispellum and Orcistus presented their respective requests in terms calculated to gain a favourable response. At the same time, according to Van Dam, Constantine’s responses show him asserting his own ideas regarding imperial succession, Roman-ness, and religious piety.51 While I do not subscribe to any particular model against another, I tend towards views that avoid over-simplifying the different interests and processes at work in imperial government (such as those briefly described above). Millar’s reactive model still deserves serious attention, especially when it comes to examining those letters of Constantine that evidently respond to some prior communication. Yet these other models remind us that the workings of Roman government, even in this one area of ‘petition and response’, are more complicated than any single interpretive model can fully account for. Noel Lenski sums up well this sense of complexity: ‘The [petition and response] system was not … a simple matter of “ask and you shall receive”. The respondent, whether a bureaucrat or the emperor himself, always dealt with requests according to predictable norms and expectations’.52 Some of these might include, according to Lenski, Roman law and local custom as well as a shared ethos that could rely on common symbols expressed by verbal and non-verbal means. Both sides in a formal communicative act needed to conform with particular codes of conduct—the petitioning party to win favour and avoid giving offense, while emperors were expected to give their full attention as well as respond. Yet there could also be a measure of uncertainty involved, as those approaching a late Roman emperor could be daunted by court ceremony and

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might have to make their best guess when clear information was thought lacking as to the best means of obtaining an advantageous decision.53 Furthermore, there was the challenge of being heard by the emperor in the first place—the difficulty of which had increased by Constantine’s time. Theoretically, any citizen could contact the emperor in order to receive his decision on any matter—regardless of how trivial the issue.54 Emperors were judged not only on how well they heeded their subjects’ voices, but also on how accessible they were in the first place.55 Yet, actual contact with an emperor could be difficult and rare.56 Wealth, social rank, and patronage governed the level of access a subject might have to various levels of the imperial government.57 Gaining an emperor’s attention grew even more difficult following various structural changes by Diocletian at the end of the third century. In addition to sharing power with Maximian as his fellow Augustus in 286 (including Galerius and Constantius as Caesars beginning in 293), Diocletian doubled the number of administrative provinces and enlarged the imperial bureaucracy accordingly.58 Diocletian also established an elaborate court ceremonial deemed appropriate to the quasi-divine status publicised by the tetrarchs, each of whom maintained an itinerant imperial presence at strategic locations throughout the empire.59 These actions were likely intended, at least in part, to provide protection from such assassinations, civil wars, and foreign invasions that were all too frequent for the Romans in previous decades.60 But such measures also limited access to the imperial court, making written communications all the more important if emperors were to continue with their essential duties of granting justice and benefits. Imperial correspondence and administration All correspondence directed to the emperor should have reached him personally, and he could be expected to respond.61 An emperor might also produce letters on his own initiative, but our surviving evidence contains many more examples where this was done following initiative from below.62 But to say this should not signal too clear a demarcation between officials or subjects as initiators and the emperor as respondent. Petitioners might establish contact, but consciously did so in response to their understanding of an emperor’s publicised priorities, preferences, values, and accomplishments. With that in mind, Simon Corcoran lists four main reasons why citizens might wish to contact their emperor. First, as alluded to earlier, imperial officials such as a provincial governor might refer difficult administrative or legal questions to the emperor for guidance or judgement. The best-known example of this would be the correspondence between Pliny and Trajan. Second, we have also discussed how individuals or groups could approach the emperor to make requests on behalf of themselves or others. Third, as noted previously, anyone who believed the emperor needed to be made aware of some event or information deemed significant could make a report in person or through a letter. Fourth, citizens and officials might (out of genuine feeling or dutiful response to an expectation) write a letter or send a commission to congratulate their emperor on a happy event such as a marriage, anniversary of an important

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 31 victory, or to commemorate his assumption of power.63 Letters in the emperor’s name would then be generated in response to an official referral, giving judgement or guidance about questions brought to him, or in answer to a private request. Letters of thanks or recognition would also be dispatched in reply to those who saluted the emperor on some auspicious occasion. The operations of Roman government thus were highly personal, and, generally speaking, the emperors maintained a significant degree of involvement.64 But given the likelihood that, for example, the number of private rescripts—despite their necessary brevity and being merely one type of written imperial pronouncement—could reach well into the thousands, it should not be surprising that emperors needed assistance producing and handling their correspondence.65 Under the Republic, senators had usually composed their own letters—determining their content and structural presentation according to shared elite expectations of literary eloquence (thus making their main recipients more open to compliance, receiving advice, giving instructions, or acceding to requests).66 Such correspondence could be either personal or political in nature, though these were often mingled, and either written by the senator himself or dictated to someone within his household.67 Generals on campaign might place a subordinate officer in charge of military communications.68 In the early empire, increased centralisation around the emperors meant that the volume of correspondence grew too great for them to write every letter or rescript by hand, thus this task was entrusted to the ab epistulis (‘secretary of letters’).69 This title was applied, perhaps as early as Augustus’ reign, to freedmen who generally held the post until the end of the first century under Domitian (r. ad 81–96) when men of equestrian rank were introduced into what had become a whole department of administration.70 An emperor might also write some letters in his own hand, but this was rare and either signalled remarkable favour or might also be an official act of diplomacy.71 Latin was the language of law and administration under the Roman Empire, but since the eastern provinces also operated in Greek it was necessary for imperial pronouncements to be produced in both tongues.72 Therefore, the post of ab epistulis Graecis (‘secretary of letters in Greek’) emerged by the early second century under Hadrian so that official dispatches might be written or translated from Latin to display the necessary levels of literary and grammatical excellence for an audience of Greek-speaking elites.73 The ab epistulis became known as the magister epistularum (‘master of letters’) by the late third century.74 The Constantinian documents we have in Greek are most likely translations from the original Latin and produced in these offices of imperial administration. By either name, this official was part of what we now call the palatine secretaries (so called because of their attachment to the emperors whose initial residence was on the Palatine Hill in Rome).75 These secretaries were known collectively by the early fourth century as the magistri scriniorum (‘master of offices’) under which were the following main positions.76 The magister epistularum and magister epistularum graecarum (‘master of letters in Greek’) dealt with embassies who presented petitions in person on behalf of their cities. The same officials

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were also responsible for handling imperial correspondence and consultationes (enquiries usually regarding matters of law).77 The role of the magister memoriae as ‘master of accounts’ is somewhat uncertain, but is believed to have involved stewardship of official records and memoranda along with dictating and distributing replies to petitions with their adnotationes (notes added to rescripts in which special privileges and immunities were granted).78 Finally, the duties of the magister libellorum (‘master of petitions’) included managing cognitiones (‘judicial examinations or hearings’) and assisting with petitions.79 Each of these offices within the scrinia produced or assisted with generating written imperial correspondence. Following further administrative reforms by Constantine, the office of quaestor sacri palatii (‘quaestor of the sacred palace’) was re-organised to oversee the production of written legislation, rescripts, and letters.80 Constantinian origin and focus of existing documents From the above, we can see that an emperor did not often sit down and write his own letters in their entirety; however, he remained closely involved with the production of his correspondence in collaboration with officials under the magistri scrinorium. Evidence is sparse after the second century, according to Millar, that emperors wrote (or dictated) their own correspondence, speeches, and edicts as a means of demonstrating the expected level of eloquence to higher-class citizens.81 However, Millar did believe that such a practice could have continued well into the fourth century due to the fact that one of Constantine’s sons, Constantius II, wrote or dictated his official declarations.82 Corcoran provides a helpful general rule that the more important a letter’s content and addressee, the more involvement an emperor would have assumed in composing his correspondence.83 But, beyond adding the concluding subscriptio (a closing salutation or signature), it is unlikely an emperor would have written entire letters himself; rather, he would have probably dictated them to one of his secretaries.84 Any contributions by others did not mean that an emperor was not involved or did not see and approve the final document that appeared in his name.85 Therefore, none of the documents associated with Constantine need to have been written with his own hand in order to represent and be consistent with how he chose to represent his thinking. Further issues of authenticity will be discussed as appropriate through the remaining parts of this chapter. It need only be noted here that the addition of a subscriptio was the main method of proving the genuineness of an official document at the time.86 Such authenticated texts were valuable to more than those to whom they were originally addressed, since copies could be made and distributed.87 Eusebius of Caesarea claimed to possess documents bearing the imperial ‘signature’ (ὑποσημείωσις) or even written in his own hand (αὐτόγραφον), and both documents associated with this claim bear a subscriptio as they appear in the Life of Constantine. Additionally, questions related to the legal force of the emperor’s will are discussed in relation to each type of individual document. To what extent, or in what sense, were these letters of Constantine legally binding? On whom, and to what end? Whatever the answers to these questions, there remains

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 33 the reality of resistance to and the difficulty of enforcing imperial commands. The nature of such resistance by some Christian factions as well as a few individual Christians, along with Constantine’s responses to such defiance, receives focused treatment in Chapter 4 (as well as some mention in other chapters as it forms part of the overall narrative of Constantine’s involvement with Christianity). Despite the central role of written communication in Roman government, there are relatively few remaining examples of letters by emperors. Out of innumerable thousands of letters that emperors must have produced, only a partial handwritten imperial subscriptio of Theodosius II survives on a single papyrus document to which is attached most of the original petition.88 The rest of what we have exists in some type of mediated form. Constantine’s ecclesiastical correspondence is found mostly quoted in historical or apologetic narratives or copied and attached to a polemical work. The letters of other emperors may also be embedded in larger narratives, edited and compiled in legislative codes, gathered as published literary collections, and inscribed by imperial order for public display or preserved in this way because of their significance to a recipient community. The number of an emperor’s surviving letters is not a matter of volume only; it can also depend on conditions of completeness, accepted authenticity, whether or not an imperial colleague’s name also appears, and the essential epistolary nature of a written or inscribed document. Next to the compiled letters of Julian, which amount to between perhaps 55 and 60 documents, the largest number of surviving imperial correspondence belongs to Trajan at 51.89 The body of letters associated with Constantine comes in third at approximately 40 letters. Thirty-nine of these are associated with him alone. If we accept the ‘edict of Milan’ as a single document (it is preserved as two separate Latin and Greek versions), which was co-authored by Licinius, then the total number rises to 40. There are, of course, numerous other letters of Constantine surviving in redacted form as part of the Theodosian Code. Inscriptions also re-produce letters of Constantine deemed significant enough by their recipients to warrant the costly work of carving the emperor’s words: the two most well-known examples being Constantine’s replies to the cities of Hispellum and Orcistus. Taken together, all extant imperial letters produced under Constantine are concerned with a variety of legal, administrative, military, and financial matters not explicitly related to Christianity or ecclesiastical conflicts. This study’s focus on Constantine’s correspondence describing his interactions with divided Christian subjects, therefore, should not be misread as suggesting that he was preoccupied mainly by Christian interests and problems. Rather, certain Christian authors aligned with particular interests selected, preserved, and used those letters of Constantine they deemed suited to their purposes. It is to these authors and Constantine’s remaining ecclesiastical correspondence that we now turn.

Constantinian correspondence in Eusebius of Caesarea’s Ecclesiastical History Eusebius of Caesarea was a biblical scholar as well as a bishop, but is perhaps best remembered for being the first to write a history of the church. Little can be

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said with certainty about his birth and early life, but he may have been born at Caesarea in Palestine sometime in the early 260s.90 He was educated in the classical tradition typical of Roman elites, and came under the influence of a presbyter named Pamphilus during his early twenties. Together, they sought to advance the work of martyred biblical scholar Origen of Alexandria (c. 185–250), whose exegetical methods and theology influenced the subsequent thinking of Eusebius. We do not know precisely when Eusebius entered the clergy at Caesarea, though he had become a bishop at least by the time of his provisional excommunication at a council in Antioch that met in early 325. He was restored to good standing later that year at the Council of Nicaea, after presenting a written statement of belief that he said received Constantine’s approval. At about this time, Eusebius completed his Ecclesiastical History in its present form. Begun in 313 with the victories of Constantine and Licinius ensuring for Christians another respite from persecution, this groundbreaking work shows evidence of at least two (and perhaps as many as four) revisions prior to 325–326.91 Such questions do not need to detain us, since our concern is with the documents embedded in Eusebius’ narrative rather than the bishop of Caesarea’s account itself. The plan of the Ecclesiastical History shows the progress of the Christian churches within the Roman Empire from the first century up through Constantine’s victory over Licinius in 324. But it is not strictly a historical account, and defies distinct categories of genre as it also contains characteristics of apologetic, panegyric, biography, martyrological accounts, and theological reflection. To supplement his narrative and arguments, Eusebius included 250 quoted documents with a further 100 provided in summary form.92 Not all of these can be accepted as authentic, such as the apocryphal exchange of letters between Jesus and King Abgar V of Edessa.93 Out of this total, 15 are declared—either by Eusebius or in their text—to originate with various emperors from Hadrian until the earlier part of Constantine’s reign prior to 315.94 Six out of these 15 are associated with Constantinian authorship and date to between late 312 and early 314.95 Eusebius wrote that these six documents were included in his history to illustrate Constantine’s generous support of Christians, and arranged each letter consecutively (though not in strict chronological order) to describe the imperial benefits received by the churches.96 But it also fit into Eusebius’ larger purpose for the work as a whole, for which he provided a summary at its beginning. Here, among other topics such as episcopal successions and heresies, he proposed to discuss the persecutions up to his own time, the character of the martyrs, and the policies of Licinius and Constantine bringing favour as well as an end to oppression by the authorities.97 This story is told up through the end of Book 9 with Constantine’s victory over Maxentius in 312 and the removal of Maximinus Daia (r. 305–313) after being defeated by Licinius in 313.98 The tenth book picks up where the ninth left off by describing the peace and blessing on all people given by God through the two victorious emperors.99 At this point, Eusebius included a copy of a speech he gave at the dedication of a restored church building at Tyre—a panegyric in which the restoration of churches destroyed during the recent persecutions serves as a metaphor for God’s dealings with the entire Christian community at this

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 35 time.100 The six documents quoted by Eusebius appear immediately following this speech to give evidence of God’s renewed favour on all through particular acts of Constantine on behalf of the Christians. Scholars do not question the authenticity of these documents, but there is some question as to how Eusebius came by them.101 Despite Eusebius’ well-established unfamiliarity with events in the West, five out of these six communications are addressed to locations in those parts of the empire: Carthage, Rome, and Syracuse. How did he obtain these documents, and from whom? Erica Carotenuto argues that the bishop received all six documents simultaneously and quoted them together without specific knowledge of the context in which they were produced.102 She also suggests that whoever originally grouped them together (and transmitted them to Eusebius via Rome) was less interested in the schism than in imperial generosity towards the churches.103 B.H. Warmington supposes that Eusebius obtained these documents (directly or indirectly) from some Christian official who travelled in the eastern provinces.104 Timothy Barnes is at an apparent loss to determine why Eusebius included these six documents, especially the letter to the ‘insignificant’ bishop of Syracuse: he presumes that ‘some personal contact’ obtained ‘this otherwise inexplicable selection of documents’ from Syracuse.105 However, I suggest that Eusebius collected these documents separately (perhaps from more than one source) and quoted them together in order to demonstrate examples of the benefits that Constantine granted to Christians around the time he first identified their God as his own. There is no evidence beyond speculation for the claim implied by these scholars that another individual gathered and transmitted all six to Eusebius. To be sure, such conjecturing is difficult to avoid and not unreasonable. Yet given the different locations of these letters’ recipients, along with the fact that two are addressed to the same imperial official and three to bishops, it is just as likely that more than one person was involved in transmitting them to Eusebius from more than one place. Carotenuto’s suggestion that Eusebius’ unknown source was more interested in imperial generosity takes greater account of the bishop of Caesarea’s reasons for including them than for the emperors’ intentions behind their production.106 Barnes’ dismissal of the letter to Chrestus can be disregarded. That letter was a copy representing the sort of imperial summons to Arles received by the bishops who were to attend. The bishop of Syracuse may not have been significant, but the letter with his name attached certainly is, as it is the only representative example of the command to attend this synod. Eusebius, at least, deemed it important enough to include as it helped illustrate his point concerning imperial favour to the churches. Also, Barnes’ description of this document’s selection as ‘inexplicable’ ignores any features it shares with the others as well as the use to which Eusebius put them. The same arguments by these scholars concerning this unidentified supplier of imperial documents to Eusebius also do not explain why two of these documents explicitly address the Donatist schism. The emperor’s letter to Miltiades, calling for a hearing at Rome to investigate the charges against Caecilian, mentions no benefits or favours at all.107 In Constantine’s letter to the bishop of Syracuse, the only benefit offered by the emperor to those summoned to Arles was permission

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for each to travel using the cursus publicus (an official courier system that provided greater speed for travel and communication) in the company of up to two presbyters and three servants.108 Eusebius included these two letters, to Miltiades of Rome and to Chrestus of Syracuse, in order to demonstrate Constantine’s care for the churches. But the only way they fit with the other four documents in such terms would be to view the letters themselves as honours granted to the bishops.109 Apart from the use made by Eusebius of these documents, Constantine did not intend such imperial provision as the cursus publicus as a measure of his favour; rather, he sought by this means to ensure that the bishops understood the need for haste and had no excuse for delaying compliance with the emperor’s command. Three of the six letters in Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History have been read as implying Constantine’s limited awareness of the schism in North Africa, which is generally thought to have started sometime between 307 and 312.110 Two are dated to winter 312–313: the first letter addressed to Anulinus, proconsul of Africa, and the letter to Caecilian providing a considerable grant of money.111 The third of these letters, also intended for Anulinus and dated to February 313, released clergy in North Africa from civil duties so that they would be able to serve God free of other distractions.112 Some scholars even suggest that Constantine not only knew about the disagreement, but had already taken Caecilian’s side.113 This is based on the emperor’s using various forms of the descriptive term ‘Catholic’ in these letters, and assumes that this label indicates the party of those who supported Caecilian as the rightful bishop of Carthage (against those who favoured his rival, Majorinus). However, Jesse Hoover reminds us that both parties competed for the claim to be rightly called ‘Catholic’ and that this was the essential issue in the dispute.114 The ‘Caecilianists’ claimed to be Catholic on the basis of universality while the ‘Donatists’ (supporters of Majorinus’ successor, Donatus of Carthage, after 313) asserted it for themselves by virtue of purity.115 Looking at the letters themselves, their language is too vague for drawing any firm conclusion that Constantine knew about or had already sided with the Caecilians as late as February 313.116 Carotenuto suggests that it is better to read the two letters to Anulinus and the one intended for Caecilian as connected with the ‘edict of Milan’ rather than the schism itself.117 Pushing this further, I contend that these three letters do not indicate either that Constantine favoured one side in the conflict over another or that he even knew about the schism prior to receiving Anulinus’ letter sometime after its attested date of 15 April 313. At least part of the difficulty lies in how the emperor referred to Christians in these letters. The reference to the ‘Catholic church of the Christians’ (τῇ ἐκκλησίᾳ τῇ καθολικῇ τῶν Χριστιανῶν) in Constantine’s reply to Anulinus did not necessarily designate one rival group against another.118 This phrase could echo a general description of Christianity, rather than naming a group of some Christians in opposition to others. I suggest that Constantine intended to apply his use of ‘Catholic’ in its universal sense by adding the descriptive phrase ‘in any city or even in other places’ (ἐν ἑκάσταις πόλεσιν ἢ κὰι ἄλλοις τόποις).119 This does not mean that the emperor intended to indicate any preference for the supporters of Caecilian, but referred instead to Christians in general including

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 37 those in North Africa. More difficult to interpret are two further references by Constantine—first, to the ‘lawful and most holy Catholic religion’ (τῆς ἐνθέσμου καὶ ἁγιωτάτης καθολικῆς θρῃσκείας) and, second, to ‘the Catholic church over which Caecilian is set’ (τῇ καθολικῇ ἐκκλησίᾳ ᾗ Καικιλιανὸς ἐφέστηκεν).120 In the first instance, what does ‘lawful’ (ἐνθέσμου) mean? Does it allude to the earlier legitimising of Christian worship by Constantine and Licinius? Or might he have meant ‘lawful’, as opposed to an unlawful or invalid body with a competing claim to being ‘Catholic’? If this is the case, then Constantine would have known about and made a decision concerning the schism as early as January or February 313. But it is unlikely the emperor would have communicated his decision so indirectly by the mere granting of benefits. The ‘edict of Milan’—published in June 313 and reflecting agreements reached by Constantine and Licinius the previous February—granted favours to the Christians, but also explicitly stated the decisions made by both emperors regarding religion. There is no indication in this later document that Constantine and Licinius had decided to support one party of Christians against another. But around the time of its publication in June 313, Constantine may have learned that divisions within Christianity existed in North Africa after receiving the letter and dossier of charges against Caecilian from Anulinus.121 No other evidence is strong enough to assert that he knew of or took sides in the schism prior to the arrival of this communication from the proconsul of Africa into Constantine’s hands. The second reference, where Caecilian is named (10.7.2), should be compared with the place where Constantine addresses him in another letter as bishop of Carthage (10.6.1). Did the emperor mean to indicate his choice of Caecilian as the rightful bishop, or was he simply unaware at this time of any other claimant to the episcopal chair of Carthage? If the former, then it seems more likely that a qualifying adjective similar to ‘rightful’ or ‘legitimate’ might appear adjacent to a form of ἐπίσκοπος—especially in the letter addressed to Caecilian himself containing ἐνθέσμου if this latter word was supposed to mean anything similar to ‘valid’. But nothing of this sort occurs either in the letter to Caecilian (10.6.1–5) or the second letter to Anulinus (10.7.1–2). In such a strict reading of these three letters, there is no hint either that Constantine knew of the schism in North Africa or declared support for Caecilian. Only by reading the emperor’s later support for Caecilian back into these earlier documents can such a conclusion be drawn. Therefore, only two of the six Constantinian letters included by Eusebius in his History unquestionably address the North African schism: the letter to Miltiades and Mark summoning an episcopal hearing at Rome (June 313), and the communication addressed to Chrestus regarding the Council of Arles (spring 314).122 The earlier document represents a first effort by Constantine to resolve the conflict, while the latter can be described as the emperor’s attempt at an effective response to the failure of that initial endeavour. The letter to Miltiades and Mark was intended to inform them that Caecilian—along with ten supporters and a further ten representing his accusers—should attend a hearing that would assemble at Rome. Militiades was to preside, along with three bishops from Gaul whom Constantine already knew and trusted. By

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these means, the emperor expected that a ‘most careful and thorough judgment’ (δίκην ἐπιμελέστατα διευκρινῆσαι) would be undertaken and a ‘just end made’ (δίκαιον τερματίσαι) of the division.123 Constantine had decided as of June 313 that the schism must end, but if he privately favoured either party at this point he was not making it public. The emperor’s letter to Chrestus is the only other document in Eusebius’ collection related to the Donatist issue. Constantine had received word that the hearing at Rome had failed to bring a resolution, and thus the schism continued. According to this letter, some of the participants in that assembly charged that too few were given the opportunity to take part and that the verdict was passed too quickly. Constantine rejected these accusations in strong terms, but their complaints nevertheless resulted in his calling a church council. This gathering was to be drawn from broader representation than the Gallic bishops at Rome, for which reason the bishop of Syracuse received his letter from Constantine. All participants were to meet at Arles, a city in southern Gaul, by 1 August 314. Each bishop was encouraged to travel with two presbyters and three servants, which indicates Constantine’s intention that the council should remain in session until unity was restored.124 The emperor communicated his irritation that the matter was not yet resolved, but still did not publicly side with either party as late as spring 314. Though the document designated traditionally as the ‘edict of Milan’ appears first according to Eusebius’ arrangement, it would be listed towards the end if placed in chronological order as its date is 13 June 313.125 Two versions survive—one in Latin preserved by Lactantius in addition to this Greek translation in Eusebius’ possession.126 It could have come into the bishop of Caesarea’s hands sometime after Licinius assumed control of the eastern provinces upon defeating Maximinus Daia on 1 May 313.127 Aside from a preamble in Eusebius’ version—which provided the precedent for granting liberty in religion not present in Lactantius’ version—there are no substantial differences in content between the Greek and Latin variants.128 Its provisions went beyond those issued earlier on the question of Christian toleration by the emperors Gallienus (r. 253–268) and Galerius (r. 305–311) in the last year of their respective reigns.129 Constantine and Licinius needed to distinguish themselves from their predecessors, and so published the terms of their own agreement on the question of Christian toleration. According to the new policy, Christians were not only to remain unmolested, but also allowed to have the same ‘free choice to follow whatever worship they may wish’ as any other citizen.130 Furthermore, any meeting places or other property belonging to Christians was to be returned immediately, no matter how it had been obtained by its current holders (who were to seek reimbursement from the imperial treasury).131 The intent was to promote the emperors’ legitimate rule by advertising their purpose and ability to retain divine favour.132 But it may not have been clear either to Constantine or Licinius at the time just how closely to associate the summus deus with the God of Christianity. Additionally, it also could have been smart politics for the emperors to avoid defining the divinity too specifically, so as not to antagonise the empire’s non-Christian majority (particularly among the elites).

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 39 The ‘edict of Milan’ could be considered questionable evidence of Constantine’s thinking, as it must also include views and language originating with Licinius. It also has nothing to do with matters internal to the churches. However, it is useful to the present study for the following reasons. First, as mentioned above, its provisions were made on the basis of imperial concern for maintaining divine favour; such regard explains why Constantine became involved with ecclesiastical conflicts in the first place, as described at greater length in the next chapter. Second, it can be read on the basis of Constantine’s understanding with Licinius as an extension of existing religious policy in the West to the East.133

Constantinian correspondence in the appendices of Optatus of Milevis We know little about Optatus, bishop of Milevis (modern Mila, Algeria), outside of his treatise Against the Donatists—written to counter the views of Parmenian, who succeeded the famous Donatus as a bishop of Carthage and had written five books of his own sometime before 366.134 Optatus’ work provides a Caecilianist narrative of the Donatist schism’s origins and early development that served its author’s polemical interests, and was written several decades after the events it described.135 There is some disagreement regarding a precise date for this treatise—suggested dates range between 363 and 397 and involve either one or two editions.136 Only six books were known to the biblical translator and theologian Jerome (c. 347–420) as of the year 392, and Optatus’ death sometime before 397 makes this the latest possible date for the seventh book.137 The main value of this work for historians is in the dossier of ten documents attached to its end as appendices.138 Mark Edwards argues on grounds of omission that Optatus neither edited nor compiled these records.139 It is indeed unlikely that Optatus edited any of the included documents, as some of their details contradict those found in his treatise’s narrative sections—thus lending credibility to the authenticity of these documents independently of the main work.140 But Edwards’ contention of an unidentified African archivist belonging to the Caecilianist party seems peculiar since this easily describes Optatus himself. As a Caecilianist bishop engaged in anti-Donatist polemic, Optatus may have had access to copies of documents that supported his position. In any case, whether he or someone else selected and added these documents to the work is less important a question for present purposes than issues concerning the genuineness of those associated with Constantinian authorship. The major challenges to accepting these documents as authentic occurred around the turn of the twentieth century.141 They have since been accepted as genuine, though some uncertainty remains regarding whether the letter to ‘Aelafius’ (App. 3), a vicarius (‘deputy governor’) of Africa, ought to be regarded as authentic.142 Yet this letter contains several points in common with less doubtful documents. For example, its descriptions of Constantine’s actions regarding the hearing at Rome and the Council of Arles align with details in the emperor’s letters to the bishops of Rome and Syracuse.143 It also describes the

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same concern for divine favour so prevalent in other Constantinian correspondence.144 For these reasons, I accept the letter to ‘Aelafius’ as genuine. However, I also acknowledge Timothy Barnes’ important reminder that ‘a genuine document is not necessarily a truthful one’.145 In other words, it can pass any test of authenticity; but this does not mean that whatever it claims can be uncritically assumed as true in a factual sense. So when this study suggests that ‘Constantine believed’ a particular position, the meaning of such an expression (without too cynical of an interpretation) should include the understanding that these documents indicate what Constantine publicly proclaimed he believed. They represent, at the very least, what he wanted the recipients of his communications to know that he believed. It does not necessarily mean that Constantine was being disingenuous, but it does highlight the difficulty of commenting from a modern perspective on the private beliefs of a public figure in the ancient world. This difficulty is increased when considering the ambiguity of Constantine’s public self-presentation in religious terms.146 Along with the letter to ‘Aelafius’ (App. 3), which is dated to spring 314, five other imperial letters form part of Optatus’ dossier: these are designated as Apps. 5, 6, 7, 9, and 10.147 The letter to the Catholic bishops (App. 5) post-dates the Council of Arles, which began on 1 August 314, by perhaps as much as a month.148 The bishops to whom App. 5 was addressed were called Constantine’s ‘most beloved brothers’ (carissimis fratribus), a fairly typical reference to various Christian luminaries.149 Forms of this salutation appear four times in this document. What is noteworthy about this is the solid indication of the emperor’s self-identification with these bishops as a fellow Christian, signifying that he had sided with Caecilian and his supporters.150 It did not imply equal status, as the bishops remained imperial subjects (whatever their rank or prestige in the church). Another possibility for interpreting carissimis fratribus in this context is that Constantine considered himself a fellow bishop. After the emperor’s death in 337, Eusebius of Caesarea related a conversation during which Constantine mentioned that he, too, was perhaps ‘a bishop appointed by God over those outside’.151 However, in App. 5, the emperor described himself as a worshipper of the ‘Almighty God’ (deus omnipotens) rather than specifically a bishop.152 In fact, he sought to distance himself so far from those who were, as of the Council of Arles, deemed schismatic that he effectively identified them among Christianity’s persecutors.153 Despite such unfavourable epithets smeared on the Donatists, the emperor exhorted their Caecilianist opponents with whom he identified to pursue patience.154 According to Constantine, it was his proper place for the sake of maintaining divine favour to see (directly or through his officials) that episcopal decisions were properly enforced.155 A letter addressed ‘to the bishops’ (episcopis) was sent from the emperor (App. 6), its context indicating that Caecilian’s opponents were the intended recipients.156 Barnes proposes a date around 1 May 315 for this document, although Mark Edwards suggests that it should be dated later than August of that year.157 I accept Barnes’ date. Edwards suggested a connection between this letter and Augustine’s narrative in Epistula 43.20. The problem with this is that Rome is not

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 41 mentioned in App. 6, nor does Augustine’s description of events refer to Africa at any point. Edwards also interprets App. 6 as Constantine’s abandonment of a promised visit to Africa (made in App. 7), but I believe this is a misreading. The emperor in this letter communicated his change of mind not regarding his own location, but the place where the case against Caecilian would be tried following a Donatist appeal of the Council of Arles. This case (according to the letter) was initially to be tried in Africa, but not by Constantine. The emperor then, for reasons of Donatist ‘obstinacy’, informed these bishops that Caecilian would be summoned to the imperial residence (either at Trier or within range of Rome).158 Therefore, Barnes’ date of circa 1 May is preferable since it does not rest on such a misreading of the evidence. Furthermore, Edwards agrees with Barnes on the date of 28 April 315 for App. 8, on which the latter based his argument for an earlier dating of App. 6.159 A date later than August 315 (or perhaps early 316, according to Barnes) would better fit App. 7, the letter to the vicarius Celsus.160 This official’s term of service (c. 315–316) encompassed the dates proposed by either Barnes or Edwards for App. 6.161 When rioting broke out in Carthage, Constantine ordered Celsus to disregard and repress their hostile feelings towards the same persons (eosdem omittas et dissimulandum), meaning the Donatists whom Constantine blamed for the violence.162 However, the emperor warned in a way that appeared to threaten force that he would personally end the matter: ‘Those same persons who incite and do things in such a manner, so that the supreme God is not honoured with the necessary reverence, I will destroy and shatter’.163 Whatever the level of seriousness in the emperor’s ominous tone, his trip to Africa never took place since he was at war with Licinius by October 316.164 Constantine considered the Donatist issue settled by November 316 and published a law confiscating their meeting places.165 The war with Licinius ended officially on 1 March 317.166 Eleven days later, soldiers accompanied by a mob broke into a church belonging to the Donatists and slaughtered those inside.167 More will be discussed regarding this affair in the next chapter.168 There is a gap of about four years before our next available letter from Constantine addressed to Caecilianist bishops and laypeople in Africa to counsel a temporising approach towards the Donatists (App. 9). This letter has been dated to 5 May 321 on the grounds that it represents Constantine’s explanation (given on the same date) to his audience for allowing exiled Donatist bishops to return.169 While ongoing resistance was anticipated, Constantine informed these Caecilianists in App. 9 that ‘patience’ (patientiam) would be his policy as vengeance was left to God.170 There is a further gap of roughly nine years between App. 9 and 10, the latter being dated 5 February 330.171 This letter (App. 10) shows Constantine’s response to an episcopal petition regarding church property that allegedly had been seized by some Donatists in the North African city of Cirta (modern Qacentina, Algeria). The emperor praised these bishops for not demanding vengeance, although he demonised the Donatists themselves in the same letter. This document also represents the latest surviving example of Constantine addressing the Donatist schism.

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Constantinian correspondence in Eusebius of Caesarea’s Life of Constantine As we have seen so far, two of the six documents in Eusebius of Caesarea’s Ecclesiastical History and six imperial letters in the dossier attached to Optatus’ treatise addressed the Donatist schism among Christians in North Africa. Attention now shifts for the remainder of this chapter, beginning here with the letters in Eusebius of Caesarea’s Life of Constantine, to the other major ecclesiastical conflict of Constantine’s reign, which centred on theological discord in the East concerning the views of Arius. Eusebius began writing his Life of Constantine perhaps as early as 335–336, possibly leaving it unfinished by the time of his death in May 339. Barnes suggested that Eusebius may have had such a work in mind as early as the Council of Nicaea in 325, while Averil Cameron and Stuart Hall submit the possibility that Eusebius started assembling material later in 324. Harold Drake rightly points out the conjectural nature of such arguments, but I have accepted his date here for three reasons. First, initial conception and assembly of source material for a work are not the same as composition, and so the speculations of Barnes, Cameron, and Hall do not argue against the later date. Second, I agree with Drake that the traditional dating of this work to the period following Constantine’s death in May 337 until Eusebius’ own death in May 339 leaves the bishop of Caesarea little time to gather materials and compose his work. Third, Cameron and Hall rightly observe that parts of the Life referring to Constantine’s sons as Augusti must be dated after the summer purge of the brothers’ dynastic rivals during summer 337, yet they acknowledge the possibility that these sections could be later additions to a work that either already existed in full or was at least already being prepared.172 In terms of genre, the work is challenging to classify as it contains many elements of imperial eulogy, political theology, and apologetic along with hagiography and panegyric. This difficulty regarding genre identification has led Barnes to accept Giorgio Pasquali’s earlier arguments regarding the Life in its surviving form as an unfinished work showing evidence of at least two drafts—one of which was a panegyric, while the other was ‘an experiment in hagiography’.173 Cameron agrees with Barnes that the Life cannot be viewed as a uniform whole, but criticises his method of assigning sections of it as either panegyric or hagiographical narrative.174 For Cameron, the Life is mainly an apologetic history urging Constantine’s sons to continue their father’s policies. She also holds that it is a ‘prototype for a saint’s life’ in which the emperor is shown as a ‘holy man’.175 Seen this way, the Life of Constantine pre-dates the Life of Antony as a model for later saints’ lives by about 20 years.176 Similarities between the Life of Constantine and the Life of Antony, as outlined by Cameron, do make this view of the former work rather intriguing. However, Cameron’s first suggestion regarding the nature and purpose of the work vis-à-vis the sons of Constantine is the more plausible. We are prevented from too closely associating these two works or over-emphasising the significance of their common features by consideration of their respective aims and audiences. The Life of

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 43 Antony begins with a statement to the effect that it was written to acquaint monks outside Egypt with Antony’s example so that they may imitate or perhaps even surpass the piety of their fellow ascetics within Egypt.177 In this way, Antony’s story is narrated for the edification of a specific Christian audience. Eusebius’ Life likewise holds its imperial subject up as a ‘lesson in the pattern of godliness to the human race’.178 Cameron may be right in speculating that, by the time Eusebius added the opening and closing statements about the sons of Constantine, he at least partly intended this work to exhort the three new Augusti to imitate the pious policies of their late father. Yet, she also correctly recognises that it was written for a potentially much broader readership that included (unlike the Life of Antony) non-Christians as well as a general Christian audience.179 The apologetic, panegyrical, and hagiographical aspects of the Life of Constantine certainly need to be acknowledged, but do not render the work entirely unreliable as a historical source. Aside from what may be said about information Eusebius included that is not available elsewhere—such as a narrative of Constantine’s conversion allegedly told by the emperor himself—he continued his method begun in the Ecclesiastical History of including imperial documents to supplement his point of view.180 Fifteen letters issued in Constantine’s name are inserted throughout Books 2–4.181 Seven of these documents deal specifically with ecclesiastical conflicts, concerning differences once again over theological issues or organisational matters.182 Scholars debated the genuineness of these documents for about a century, particularly Constantine’s letter to the provincials of Palestine.183 Consensus favouring acceptance of this and the other documents contained in the Life followed the publication in 1954 of a papyrus fragment containing parts of this letter exactly as it appears embedded in Eusebius’ work.184 Affirming the authenticity of the whole collection of letters in the Life based on the verification of a single document may seem a doubtful proposition. However, if such evidence as this scrap of papyrus authenticates the most disputed of the assorted documents, then it is reasonable to accept the less contentious letters.185 Their genuineness as real letters (or copies) originating at least with the imperial administration under Constantine, if not in every case the emperor himself, is assumed here. For the purposes of this chapter, I will briefly discuss four of the letters found in Books 2 and 3 of the Life of Constantine. Two of these are concerned with ecclesiastical conflicts: the emperor’s letter addressed to Alexander and Arius, and his announcement of the Council of Nicaea’s decision regarding the date on which Easter was to be celebrated throughout the empire.186 Two other letters proclaimed Constantine’s policies on religion to his newly won eastern provinces after he defeated Licinius at the Battle of Chrysopolis (18 September 324): one of these was addressed in its text to the provincials of Palestine, while the other was intended for all the provincials of the East.187 These latter two documents are quite similar and also each date to the later autumn of 324. They are included here on the same basis as the ‘edict of Milan’ in terms of their contribution to establishing Constantine’s ongoing desire to maintain divine favour and pursue unity. I treat these letters as a unit at the start of this section before moving on to consider

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issues with the letter to Alexander and Arius as well as the communication to the churches with respect to Easter’s commemoration. The three letters dealing with Eusebius’ cancelled translation to the episcopal chair of Antioch are examined in Chapter 5, while the other documents in the Life of Constantine whose dates lie beyond 328 until the end of the emperor’s reign are considered in the sixth chapter. Shortly after Constantine defeated Licinius in September 324, according to Eusebius, each province received a pair of letters bearing the victor’s signature: one for the churches, and the other intended for everyone.188 Both of these documents publicised Constantine’s devotion to the supreme God and expressed his desired policies on religion with all citizens in mind.189 Although stated differently in each case, Constantine’s goal was to express and continue the same agenda of religious liberty and unity in the East that was already operating in the West. The letter to the provincials of Palestine declared that Christians would be compensated for loss of property, status, or liberty suffered after Licinius supposedly reneged on the Milan agreement.190 While the content of this letter mostly describes measures of restitution that might have interested Christians, its language indicates that the emperor also had a non-Christian audience in mind. Constantine spoke of his continuing allegiance to the God of Christianity and proclaimed a series of resolutions on behalf of Christians that would have affected non-Christians. The other letter was addressed to all inhabitants of the eastern provinces, and indicated the emperor’s policies concerning the non-Christian majority in light of his favour towards the churches.191 Constantine made it clear that he intended to go beyond the terms of his prior agreement with Licinius. That arrangement had granted liberty in religion to all imperial subjects.192 But, as both of these letters from 324 implied, only one form of religion now met with unqualified imperial sanction: Christianity. The ‘edict of Milan’ restored church property, whereas the new policies called for the restoration of individual status to any person who had suffered the loss of their former liberty and social standing as well as their holdings.193 The emperor also anticipated in this letter that the number of Christians would continue increasing, and instructed the bishops to oversee an expanded programme of church construction.194 All such provisions in these letters combined with Constantine’s unchallenged status in late 324 have led to assuming that a ‘Christian empire’, or at least Christianity as the official religion of the empire, was thus established.195 However, the most that can be said is that the conditions for such an establishment were made increasingly possible although such formalisation never occurred during the reign of Constantine. The late sociologist Rodney Stark concluded that the early Christian evangelistic success among diaspora Jews, their appeal to the privileged classes, the attractiveness of Christian acts of mercy, and the influential networks of large numbers of Christian women made it both possible and even likely that Christianity would at some point become the public religion of the Roman Empire.196 In any case, it took more to accomplish this than a single emperor’s unprecedented profession of Christianity. This can be illustrated by repeated legislation in the Theodosian Code concerning pagan sacrifices, indicating the

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 45 difficulty faced by various emperors from Constantine at the beginning of the fourth century to Theodosius I at its end—excepting, of course, the attempted pagan restoration under Julian in the early 360s—to keep their non-Christian subjects from continuing to sacrifice illegally.197 It is also characteristic of the ‘Rational Actor’ approach rightly rejected by Drake to assume that Constantine single-handedly established Christianity in the Roman Empire apart from the contributions of other emperors or the religion’s progress on its own terms among such groups as described by Stark. While formulating these policies after Licinius’ defeat, Constantine learned of the dispute between Alexander, bishop of Alexandria, and one of his priests, a Libyan named Arius. Word about this conflict, which was at least six years old (according to traditional dating) and widespread throughout the East by this time, probably reached the victorious emperor soon after he took up residence in Nicomedia where that city’s bishop was known as one of the prime movers in support of Arius.198 Constantine initially responded by dispatching Ossius, bishop of Cordoba, with a letter addressed to Alexander and Arius in late autumn or early winter 324.199 In this letter, the emperor implored the two adversaries to reconcile with each other and reunify their respective supporters. His statements that seem to belittle the subject of their debate did not necessarily reveal either his own theological ignorance or apathy, but expressed his initial attempt to minimise their differences for the sake of helping them find common ground. After the Council of Nicaea concluded in summer 325, Constantine sent letters (a pair of which survive) that communicated its decisions: one relating to theological questions, and the other dealing with the organisational matter of properly timing a date for Christians throughout the empire to celebrate Easter.200 The former, a letter addressed to the Catholic Church of Alexandria, is discussed in Chapter 5.201 The latter was intended for Christians in the East who were expected to conform with western practice in their timing of that celebration.202 A copy sent to the provinces of Syria and Palestine would have come directly into the hands of Eusebius as bishop of Caesarea.203 Despite the note of triumph in the letter’s tone, some Christians in Syria continued celebrating Easter according to the Jewish Passover, while variation in timing also persisted between the churches of Rome and Alexandria.204

Later Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts The main body of surviving imperial correspondence on ecclesiastical matters under Constantine is preserved by Eusebius and Optatus. Two further collections of documents contain an additional 13 letters, dating between 325 and 335. Eight of these 13 are included among the letters gathered from various ancient sources by Opitz in 1934, and cover a period from spring 325 until approximately 333.205 Another five letters were used by Athanasius of Alexandria in the second part of his Apology against the Arians, and range in their dates between 330 and 335.206 The letters of Constantine compiled by Opitz are mainly gathered from three sources: a dossier of documents attached to some manuscripts of Athanasius’

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Defence of the Nicene Definition, and embedded in the respective narratives of Socrates’ Ecclesiastical History and an anonymous Ecclesiastical History falsely attributed to Gelasius of Cyzicus.207 The Defence by Athanasius is the earliest of these three sources, variously dated to between 350 and 357.208 The Apology may have been composed a decade or so earlier, although one scholar has argued for a date after 370 for Athanasius’ revision of this work.209 Socrates wrote his Ecclesiastical History sometime between 439 and 450, with the likeliest date being around 439–443.210 The anonymous ecclesiastical history attributed to a Gelasius of Cyzicus was written around the year 475. The false attribution arises from the ninth-century bishop, Photius I of Constantinople, who referred twice to this work in his catalogue and summary of 279 books.211 Photius noted that it bore the name ‘Gelasius’, and probably assumed this otherwise unknown individual was the author: Photius himself writes that he was never able to precisely identify this Gelasius.212 He did, however, correctly identify the author as hailing from the town of Cyzicus (near the modern district of Erdek in northwest Turkey) and living during the time of Basiliscus who briefly usurped the imperial throne of Zeno (r. 474–491) in 475.213 The letter summoning the bishops to Nicaea (Urk. 20) survives only in Syriac with the Greek text supplied by Eduard Schwartz.214 The letter to bishops and laity in which Constantine branded Arius and his supporters as ‘Porphyrians’ (Urk. 33) is also preserved in Syriac manuscripts as well as attached to these works of Athanasius, Socrates, and ‘Gelasius’.215 Constantine’s letter attacking Eusebius of Nicomedia (Urk. 27) can be found in Theodoret of Cyrrhus’ Ecclesiastical History as well as appended to the third book of ‘Gelasius’.216 Finally, Epiphanius of Salamis included a copy of another, lengthier letter of Constantine addressed to Arius and his followers (Urk. 34) towards the end of his late fourth-century catalogue of heresies called the Panarion.217 As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, I use Opitz’s numbering method for each of these documents for convenience while the ancient references are included in the Appendix. Scholars generally agree about the authenticity of these imperial letters of Constantine in Opitz’s collection, although there is still debate over their chronology.218 A revised version of this compilation by other scholars, published in 2007, slightly changes the chronological arrangement of Opitz’s work.219 However, I accept the original dating for two reasons. First, the dating of Constantine’s letter to Alexander and Arius to 323–324 in the 2007 revision does not fit on the basis of this document’s text, which is written as if the emperor had already defeated Licinius.220 This earlier date for the letter allows more time for other related events to occur prior to the Council of Nicaea (such as Ossius of Cordoba’s departure to Alexandria, the calling of a ‘great council’, and the emperor’s change of its venue from Ancyra to Nicaea). But even if minor adjustment of Opitz’s chosen date of October 324 to around December that year is necessary, these other events could still have occurred between this date and Nicaea’s opening session on 20 May 325.221 Therefore, it is best to accept a more specific date of October–December 324 than the broader 323– 324 date. In other cases where the 2007 revision offers a similarly broader range of dating for a document than Opitz’s original chronology, I opt for the latter on the

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 47 basis of specificity. The second factor making Opitz’s original chronology preferable to the 2007 revision concerns two letters involving Arius: one addressed to all the bishops and laity, and the other directed to Arius and his associates.222 There is no evidence suggesting that the destruction of Arius’ writings, threatened in the brief communication to the bishops and laity, was part of the imperial sentence of exile against him in 325 (the date chosen by the editors of the 2007 revision as opposed to 333, posited by Opitz).223 Constantine’s apparent quotations of Arius, in his lengthy diatribe against the condemned presbyter and his supporters (dated 325 in the 2007 revision, while Opitz also put this letter in the year 333), indicate that some time has passed: the emperor was responding to Arius’ apparent impatience at not yet being restored to communion despite having earlier won imperial support.224 Such support was not offered until 327–328 after Arius had satisfied Constantine on the point of his accepting Nicaea.225 Thus, here, too, I accept Opitz’s date of 333. The letters quoted by Athanasius in his Apology, like those in Optatus’ collection, were included to serve the author’s polemical purposes. The Apology was intended to vindicate Athanasius against various charges brought against him by his opponents, whom he largely associated with the party of Eusebius of Nicomedia.226 The Apology’s first part (1–58) was meant to demonstrate Athanasius’ thorough vindication, and included supportive statements by former opponents as well as from his consistent supporters. In the second part (59–90), Athanasius gave his version of events from the beginning to demonstrate the truth of earlier testimony in his favour.227 His narrative centred on the Council of Tyre, with numerous documents attached as part of his effort to ‘discredit the process’ by which he was found guilty at this synod of the charges against him.228 Five imperial letters of Constantine were placed at various points by Athanasius in this second part of the Apology. But what purpose was served by Athanasius’ selection of these five imperial letters, and how did he obtain his copies? Athanasius’ objective in the whole work was to show, through selected documentation interspersed with his own commentary, that his opponents were part of an ‘Arian’ conspiracy to put him out of the way and introduce heresy.229 Four of the documents associated with Constantine were selected by Athanasius to prove that his cause enjoyed consistent imperial support. The letter to Athanasius was included to help make the point that he was justified in resisting the emperor’s order to grant free access to all who desired to be in ecclesiastical communion.230 All these documents were easily obtained by Athanasius: two were addressed directly to him (59 and 68), and three directly concerned him (61–62, 70, and 86). Athanasius was sent back to Alexandria with a copy of Constantine’s letter to the church of that city.231 The emperor’s letter of warning to the bishops at Tyre summoned them to give an account of their proceedings in his court at Athanasius’ request, who could have acquired a copy from Julius, bishop of Rome between 338 and 341.232

Conclusion These five collections of imperial documents associated with Constantinian authorship comprise the main primary source material that we can examine in

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order to better understand Constantine’s view of his involvement with internal church conflicts. The largest portion of this evidence comes from the documents preserved in works by Eusebius of Caesarea and Optatus of Milevis, which are important for exploring Constantine’s developing approach to ecclesiastical conflicts between 312 and 328. Additional letters collected by Athanasius of Alexandria, along with those compiled by Opitz, serve as supplemental testimony indicating Constantine’s assumptions related to the use of his power in addressing disputes among Christians after Nicaea until the end of his reign. The use of these documents involves acknowledging some ongoing uncertainty and scholarly debate, but their value for this study’s purpose can be established on reasonable grounds. The authentic Constantinian origin of these documents is generally accepted by scholars, while some debate lingers regarding questions about their proper dating or how they might have come into the possession of those authors who made use of them in their works. The only document whose genuineness remains a point of contention is the letter to ‘Aelafius’, labelled as Appendix 3 in the dossier attached to the end of Optatus’ treatise. Such doubt is mostly to do with misgivings concerning the name and position of its apparent addressee. However, the character of the letter’s content and language contains aspects found to be consistent with other less disputed documents. Therefore, it is also assumed genuine here.

Notes 1 For example, see Lactant., De mort. pers. 1.1–6; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.1–2; Euseb., Vit. Const. 1.3.3–1.6, 4.74–75. 2 See Zos. 2.18, 2.20, 2.22, 2.28–29. 3 Aur. Vict., Caes. 40–41; Eutr. 10.2–8. For the dates, see H.W. Bird, ‘Introduction’ in Aurelius Victor: De Caesaribus (H.W. Bird, trans.; TTH; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1994), xi–xii; H.W. Bird, ‘Introduction’ in Eutropius: Breviarum (H.W. Bird, trans.; TTH; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1993), xiii–xiv, xviii–xix. 4 For Latin text, see Anonymous Valesianus, Origo Constantini, Teil 1: Text und Kommentar (Ingemar König, ed.; Trier: Trierer historische Forschungen, 1987). For English translation, see ‘The Origin of Constantine: The Anonymous Valesianus pars prior (Origo Constantini)’ in From Constantine to Julian: Pagan and Byzantine Views: A Source History (Samuel N.C. Lieu and Dominic Montserrat, eds.; Jane Stevenson, trans.; London: Routledge, 1996), 39–61. For arguments concerning date of composition, see Anonymous Valesianus, Origo Constantini (König, ed.), 19–28; Timothy Barnes, ‘Jerome and the “Origo Constantini Imperatoris”’, Phoenix 43:2 (Summer 1989), 158–161; Émilie Aussenac, ‘“L’Origo Constantini”: rétroaction et approche d’une datation’, Latomus 60:3 (July–September 2001), 671–676. 5 Latin text and English translation in C.V. Nixon and Barbara Saylor Rodgers, In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Pangegyrici Latini: Introduction, Translation, and Historical Commentary with Latin Text of R.A.B. Mynors. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994). On Constantine’s marriage to Fausta, see Lat. Pan. 7. Cf. Lat. Pan. 6 for evident changes in Maximian’s relationship with Constantine. See also Lactant., De mort. pers. 27.1, 28–30.6. 6 A summary of such evidence may be found in Charles Odahl, Constantine and the Christian Empire (2nd edn.; New York: Routledge, 2013), 11–14. See also Bruno

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8

9

10 11 12 13 14

15 16

17

18 19 20

Bleckmann, ‘Introduction’ in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Constantine (Noel Lenski trans. and ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 17–21. Fergus Millar, The Emperor in the Roman World, 31 B.C.–A.D. 337 (London: Duckworth, 1977), 6. See also Millar, ‘Trajan: Government by Correspondence’ in Rome, the Greek World, and the East, Vol. 2: Government, Society, and Culture in the Roman Empire (Hannah Cotton and Guy MacLean Rogers, eds.; Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004), 23–46. Simon Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence in the Roman Empire: Imperial Communication from Augustus to Justinian’ in State Correspondence in the Ancient World: From New Kingdom Egypt to the Roman Empire (Karen Radner, ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 172–298 at 179. See also John F. Matthews, Laying Down the Law: A Study of the Theodosian Code (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000); Jill Harries and Ian N. Wood, The Theodosian Code: Studies in the Imperial Law of Late Antiquity (2nd edn.; Bristol: Bristol Classical Press, 2010); John Noël Dillon, The Justice of Constantine: Law, Communication, and Control (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2012). Cod. Theod. 1.1.5. Translation in The Theodosian Code and Novels and the Sirmondian Constitutions: A Translation with Commentary, Glossary, and Bibliography (Clyde Pharr, Theresa Sherrer Davidson, and Mary Brown Pharr, trans.; Clark: Lawbook Exchange, 2012), 11. John Matthews, ‘The Making of the Text’ in Theodosian Code (Harries and Ian Wood, eds.), 19–44 at 22–23. Matthews, ‘Making of the Text’ in Theodosian Code (Harries and Wood, eds.), 22 (see esp. 22n7). For the ‘minutes’ of the senate that sanctioned the Code, see Theodosian Code (Pharr, et al., trans.), 3–7. George A. Kennedy, Classical Rhetoric and Its Christian and Secular Tradition from Ancient to Modern Times (2nd edn.; Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999), 2–3. A complete list of the documents associated with Constantinian authorship is provided in the Appendix at the end of this book. Eusebius of Caesarea: Eduard Schwartz, Eusebius Werke 2.2: Die Kirchengeschicte (GCS 9.2; Leipzig: Hinrich, 1908); Friedhelm Winkelmann, Eusebius Werke 1.1: Über das Leben der Kaiser Konstantin (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1975); Ecclesiastical History (2 vols.; Kirsopp Lake and J.E.L. Oulton, trans.; LCL; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1932); The Life of Constantine (CAHS; Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall, trans.; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999). Optatus of Milevis: S. Optati Milevitani Libri VII (CSEL 26; Karl Ziwsa, ed.; Vindobonae: F. Tempsky, 1893); Against the Donatists (TTH; Mark Edwards, trans.; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1997). I have changed each ‘u’ in Ziwsa’s Latin text to ‘v’ in quoted passages for greater ease of reading. Hans-Georg Opitz, Athanasius Werke 2.1: Die Apologien, Lfg. 1-7 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1935–1941); Hans-Georg Opitz, Athanasius Werke 3.1: Urkunden zur Geschichte des Arianischen Streites (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1934). It should be noted in the case of documents collected by Opitz from Eusebius’ Life of Constantine—e.g., Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.17–20 = Opitz, Urk. 26—that I have cited these according to the numbering added to the Life for the sake of keeping documents in that work grouped together when it comes to analysis. For examples of non-Christian and non-Catholic perspectives, see Eutr. 10; Orig. Const.; Zos. 2; Phot., Epit. 1.1–2; Anon., ‘Sermon on Passion of Donatus and Advocatus’ in Donatist Martyr Stories (TTH; Maureen A. Tilley, trans.; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1996), 51–60. Amm. Marc. 27.3.11–13. Amm. Marc. 27.3.5, 27.3.11–13. On Viventius, see PLRE, 972. Amm. Marc. 27.2.10.

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21 For examples of references to imperial documents held by schismatic or heretical groups, see August., Ep. 43.27; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 2.39. 22 August., Ep. 43.27. 23 Socrates, Hist. eccl. 2.37–39. On these councils, see Timothy Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius: Theology and Politics in the Constantinian Empire (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), 132–135, 203–204. 24 Euseb., Vit. Const. 4.9–13. See Kyle Smith, Constantine and the Captive Christians of Persia: Martyrdom and Religious Identity in Late Antiquity (Oakland: University of California Press, 2016), 17–44. 25 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.30–32, 3.52–53. 26 Euseb., Vit. Const. 4.35, 4.36. 27 For differing views regarding the term ‘edict of Milan’, see Milton V. Anastos, ‘The Edict of Milan (313): A Defence of Its Traditional Authorship and Designation’, REByz 25 (1967), 13–41; Timothy Barnes, ‘Constantine after Seventeen Hundred Years: The Cambridge Companion, the York Exhibition, and a Recent Biography’, International Journal of the Classical Tradition 14 (2007), 185–220; Noel Lenski, ‘The Significance of the Edict of Milan’ in Constantine: Religious Faith and Imperial Policy (A. Edward Siecienski, ed.; London: Routledge, 2017), 27–56. For convenience, I use the conventional title in quotation marks. 28 See Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.32 for Eusebius’ direct reference to this speech. 29 For varying arguments, see Harold Drake, ‘Suggestions of Date in Constantine’s to the Saints’, American Journal of Philology 106:3 (1985), 335–349; Timothy Barnes, ‘Constantine’s “Speech to the Assembly of the Saints”: Place and Date of Delivery’, JThS 52:1 (April 2001), 26–36; Mark Edwards, ‘Introduction’, in Constantine and Christendom: The Oration to the Saints, The Greek and Latin Accounts of the Discovery of the Cross, and the Edict of Constantine to Silvester (TTH; Edwards, trans.; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2003), ix–xxix; Robin Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians in the Mediterranean World from the Second Century A.D. to the Conversion of Constantine (2nd edn.; New York: Penguin, 2006), 642–644, 777– 778; Klaus Girardet, ‘Ein spätantiker “Sonnenkönig als Christ”’, Göttinger Forum für Altertumswissenschaft 16 (2013), 371–381. 30 For those passages, see Const., Orat. 3, 8–9, 11, 15, 18; cf. Barnes, ‘Constantine’s Speech’, 34–36; Mark Edwards, ‘The Arian Heresy and the “Oration to the Saints”’, Vigiliae Christianae 49:4 (November 1995), 379–387. 31 For a brief summary of positions, see Timothy Barnes, Constantine: Dynasty, Religion, and Power in the Later Roman Empire (Malden: Blackwell, 2014), 115, 117–118. Here, Barnes repeats his conclusions from his 2001 article, for which see n29 above. 32 Cristiana Sogno, Bradley K. Storin, and Edward J. Watts, ‘Introduction: Greek and Latin Epistolography and Epistolary Collections in Late Antiquity’ in Late Antique Letter Collections: A Critical Introduction and Reference Guide (Cristiana Sogno, Bradley K. Storin, and Edward J. Watts, eds.; Oakland: University of California Press, 2017), 1–10. 33 Studies emphasising Roman elites include, for example, Michael Trapp, ed., Greek and Latin Letters: An Anthology with Translation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); Ruth Morello and A.D. Morrison, eds., Ancient Letters: Classical and Late Antique Epistolography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); Claudia Kreuzsaler, Bernharde Palme, and Angelika Zdiarsky, eds., Stimmen aus dem Wüstensand: Briefkultur im griecisch-römischen Ägypten (Vienna: Phoibos Verlag, 2010); Antonia Sarri, Material Aspects of Letter-Writing in the Graeco-Roman World, 500 B.C.–A.D. 300 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2018); and Paola Ceccarelli, Lutz Doering, Thorsten Fögen, and Ingo Gildenhard, eds., Letters and Communities: Studies in the Socio-Political Dimension of Ancient Epistolography (Oxford: Oxford University

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34

35

36 37 38

39 40

Press, 2018). For works dealing with imperial communications, Millar’s Emperor in the Roman World (see n7 above for full reference) remains a significant contribution. See also Margareta Benner, The Emperor Says: Studies in the Rhetorical Style of Edicts of the Early Empire (Göteborg: Acta Universitatis Gothoburgensis, 1975); Clifford Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000); and Simon Corcoran, The Empire of the Tetrarchs: Imperial Pronouncements and Government, A.D. 284–324 (Rev. edn.; Oxford: Clarendon, 2000). Cristiana Sogno and Edward J. Watts, ‘Epistolography’ in A Companion to Late Antique Literature (Scott McGill and Edward J. Watts, eds.; Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2018), 389–400. See also D.R. Shackleton Bailey, Cicero (London: Duckworth, 1971); Olivia Elder and Alex Mullen, The Language of Roman Letters: Bilingual Epistolography from Cicero to Fronto (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019); Matthias Ludolph, Epistolgraphie und Selbstdarstellung: Untersuchungen zu den ‘Paradebriefen’ Plinius des Jüngeren (Tübingen: Gunter Narr Verlag, 1997); Nicole Méthy, Les lettres de Pline de Jeune: une représentation de l’homme (Paris: Presses de l’Université Paris-Sorbonne, 2007); Roy K. Gibson and Ruth Morello, Reading the Letters of Pliny the Younger: An Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012); Gerd Haverling, Studies on Symmachus’ Language and Style (Göteborg: Acta Universitatis Gothoburgensis, 1988); Cristiana Sogno, Q. Aurelius Symmachus: A Political Biography (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2006); Bernadette Cabouret, Libanios: Lettres aux hommes de son temps (Paris: La Belles Lettres, 2004); and Libanius: A Critical Introduction (Lieve Van Hoof, ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). For this correspondence, see Fronto: Correspondence, Vols. I and II (LCL; C.R. Haines, trans.; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1928–1929), with a recent critical edition of the Latin text in M. Cornelii Frontonis: Epistulae (Michael P.J. van den Hout, ed.; Leipzig: Teubner, 1988). Examinations of Fronto’s communication with Marcus Aurelius include: Marcus Aurelius in Love: The Letters of Marcus and Fronto (Amy Richlin, ed. And trans.; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006); Annelise Freisenbruch, ‘Back to Fronto: Doctor and Patient in His Correspondence with an Emperor’ in Ancient Letters (Morello and Morrison, eds.), 235–255; Pascale Fleury, ‘Marcus Aurelius’ Letters’, in A Companion to Marcus Aurelius (Marcel van Ackern, ed.; Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 62–76; Yasuko Taoka, ‘The Correspondence of Fronto and Marcus Aurelius: Love, Letters, Metaphor’, Classical Antiquity 32:2 (2013), 406–438. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 176; Sarri, Material Aspects of Letter-Writing, 24. See, for example, Julian., Ep. 8, 23, 29, and 58; cf. Susanna Elm, ‘The Letter Collection of the Emperor Julian’ in Late Antique Letter Collections (Sogno, et al., eds.), 54–68 at 57–58. Gibson and Morello, Reading the Letters of Pliny the Younger, 255–259. For Latin text and English translation of this correspondence, see Book 10 in Pliny: Letters, Vol. 2: Books 8–10, Panegyricus (LCL; Betty Radice, trans.; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1969), 166–315. The standard critical edition in Latin is C. Plini Caecili Secundi Epistularum Libri Decem (R.A.B. Mynors, ed.; Clarendon: Oxford University Press, 1963). For translations and commentary, see Christopher P. Jones, ‘Three New Letters of the Emperor Hadrian’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigrafik 161 (2007), 145–166. Justinian., Dig. 1.4.1; cf. August., Ep. 88.2. On adoratio, see H. Stern, ‘Remarks on the “Adoratio” under Diocletian’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 17:1/2 (1954), 184–189; Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty, 106–107; John Weisweiler, ‘Populist Despotism and Infrastructural Power in the Later Roman Empire’ in Ancient States and Infrastructural Power: Europe, Asia, and America

52 41 42

43 44

45

46 47 48 49

50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

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The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts (Clifford Ando and Seth Richardson, eds.; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017), 149–178 at 149–151. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 172; Christopher Kelly, Ruling the Later Roman Empire (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2006), 120–121. CIL III, n. 352; ILS 705; cf. Noel Lenski, Constantine and the Cities: Imperial Authority and Civic Politics (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016), 96–103, 114–130. See also Cod. Theod. 10.10.1, 13.10.1; Plin., Ep. 10.110–111; cf. August., Ep. 88.2; Judith Evans Grubbs, Law and Family in Late Antiquity: The Emperor Constantine’s Marriage Legislation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 46–47; Dillon, Justice of Constantine, 41–44; O.F. Robinson, The Sources of Roman Law: Problems and Methods for Ancient Historians (London: Routledge, 1997), 31–32. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 173. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 6–8, 537–549. For additional perspective on ‘petition and response’, see Serena Connolly, Lives behind the Laws: The World of the Codex Hermogenianus (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010); Benjamin Kelly, Petitions, Litigation, and Social Control in Roman Egypt (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 477; Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, ‘Civilis Princeps: Between Citizen and King’, JRS 72 (1982), 32–48; B. Kelly, Petitions, Litigation, and Social Control, 170–177; Arthur M. Eckstein, ‘Hellenistic Monarchy in Theory and Practice’ in A Companion to Greek and Roman Political Thought (Ryan K. Balot, ed.; Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013), 247–265. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 216; C. Kelly, Ruling the Later Roman Empire, 121. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 216–218. For the two most well-known examples, see the Orcistus dossier (CIL III, n. 352) and the Hispellum rescript (ILS 705). Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty, 6–7, and argued in detail at 73–273. Clifford Ando, ‘Petition and Response, Order and Obey: Contemporary Models of Roman Government’ in Governing Ancient Empires: Proceedings of the 3rd to 5th International Conferences of the Research Network Imperium and Officium (Michael Jursa and Stephan Procházka, eds.; Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, forthcoming). Kelly, Ruling the Later Roman Empire, 186–231. Raymond Van Dam, The Roman Revolution of Constantine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 11–13, 23–34, 150–162. Lenski, Constantine and the Cities, 88. Van Dam, Roman Revolution, 19–22. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 185; cf. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 466–467. See also Fergus Millar, ‘Emperors at Work’, JRS 57:1/2 (1967), 9–19. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 466–467; Kaius Tuori, The Emperor of Law: The Emergence of Roman Imperial Adjudication (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 136. Kelly, Ruling the Later Roman Empire, 120–121, 229–230. Tuori, Emperor of Law, 199–200. Stephen Williams, Diocletian and the Roman Recovery (London: Routledge, 2000), 102–114; Elio Lo Cascio, ‘The New State of Diocletian and Constantine: From the Tetrarchy to the Reunification of the Empire’ in The Cambridge Ancient History, Vol. 12: The Crisis of Empire, A.D. 193–337 (Alan Bowman, Averil Cameron, and Peter Garnsey, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 170–183. On court ceremony, see Christian Rollinger, ‘The Importance of Being Splendid: Competition, Ceremonial, and the Semiotics of Status at the Court of the Later Roman Emperors’ in Gaining and Losing Imperial Favour in Late Antiquity: Representation

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60 61 62 63 64 65 66

67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86

and Reality (Kamil Cyprian Choda, Maurits Sterk de Leeuw, and Fabian Schulz, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2020), 36–72. For the movements of emperors reigning between 284 and 337, see Timothy Barnes, The New Empire of Diocletian and Constantine (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1982), 68–80. Williams, Diocletian and the Roman Recovery, 111–112; Jill Harries, Imperial Rome A.D. 284 to 363: The New Empire (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012), 81–84. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 185. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 321–322. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 185. Peter Garnsey, Richard Saller, Jaś Elsner, Martin Goodman, Richard Gordon, Greg Woolf, and Marguerite Hirt, The Roman Empire: Economy, Society and Culture (2nd edn.; Oakland: University of California Press, 2015), 39–40. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 181–183, 185–187; Tuori, Emperor of Law, 254. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 214; Peter Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992), 35–70; Barbara E. Borg, ‘Introduction’ in Paideia: The World of the Second Sophistic (Barbara E. Borg, ed.; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2004), 1–10 at 1–3; Trapp, Greek and Latin Letters, 4–5. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 214. Hugh Lindsay, ‘Suetonius as “ab epistulis” to Hadrian and the Early History of Imperial Correspondence’, Historia 43:4 (1994), 454–468 at 454. Lindsay, ‘Suetonius’, 459–460. Lindsay, ‘Suetonius’, 454–458. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 215. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 200–201. On this post, see Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 224–228. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 188. A. Arthur Schiller, Roman Law: Mechanisms of Development (The Hague: Mouton, 1978), 476–480; Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 190. Not. Dign. Or. xix; Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 224. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 224; Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 176. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 176, 188. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 224. Jill Harries, ‘The Roman Imperial Quaestor from Constantine to Theodosius II’, JRS 78 (1988), 148–172; Christopher Kelly, ‘Bureaucracy and Government’ in Cambridge Companion to Constantine (Lenski, ed.), 183–204 at 187–188. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 219–220; Brown, Power and Persuasion, 35–70. Amm. Marc. 15.1.3; Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 220. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 186–187. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 193–196. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 220–228; Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 194. For example, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.23.2–3 in connection with the document quoted at 2.24–42, along with 2.47.1–2 in relation to the letter at 2.48.60. Both of these Constantinian documents (2.24–42, 2.48.60) give the appearance of edicts, or general legislation written in epistolary form. See also Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 174–175, 194–196. Corcoran also includes, in a general sense, the use of purple ink (to which only the emperor had access and the right to use) and a signet ring to affix his official seal. The use of purple ink to compose the emperor’s official pronouncements is not attested until a law of Leo I (r. 457–474), dated to 470. See Cod. Iust. 1.23.6. The best evidence for imperial use of the signet ring to seal letters is limited to

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The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts the early empire. Emperors did not sign their own names, and the use of the ‘monogram’ does not appear until at least the early sixth century. On subscriptiones, see Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 206–207, 242. Corcoran, ‘State Correspondence’, 184–185. The papyrus is known as P. Leiden Z, first published in Denis Feissel and Klaas A. Worp, ‘La requête d’Appion, évêque de Syène, à Théodose II: P. Leid. Z. révisé’, Oudheidkundige mededelingen uit het Rijksmuseum voor Oudheden te Leiden 68 (1988), 97–111. For an English translation, see The Elephantine Papyri in English: Three Millennia of Cross-Cultural Continuity and Change (Bezalel Porten, et Al., eds.; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 441–442. Elm, ‘Letter Collection of Julian’ in Late Antique Letter Collections (Sogno, et Al., eds.), 54–55; Michael Trapp, ‘The Emperor’s Shadow: Julian in His Correspondence’ in Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate (Nicholas Baker-Brian and Shaun Tougher, eds.; Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2012), 105–120 at 105. The following biographical summary is taken from Timothy Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981), 94–105, 265–271; James Corke-Webster, Eusebius and Empire: Constructing Church and Rome in the Ecclesiastical History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 17–33. Other important works on Eusebius of Caesarea include F.J. Foakes-Jackson, Eusebius Pamphili: A Study of the Man and His Writings, Five Essays (Cambridge: Heffer, 1933); D.S. Wallace-Hadrill, Eusebius of Caesarea (London: Mowbray, 1960); Robert M. Grant, Eusebius as Church Historian (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980); Eusebius, Christianity, and Judaism (Harold W. Attridge and Gohei Hata, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 1992); Reconsidering Eusebius: Collected Essays on Literary, Historical, and Theological Issues (Sabrina Inowlocki and Claudio Zamagni, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2011); and Eusebius of Caesarea: Tradition and Innovations (Aaron P. Johnson and Jeremy Schott, eds.; Washington, D.C.: Center for Hellenic Studies, 2013). Timothy Barnes, ‘Eusebius of Caesarea’, Expository Times 121:1 (2009), 1–14 at 4–7; Corke-Webster, Eusebius and Empire, 42, 54–85. Corke-Webster draws insightfully from scholarship concerning the process of ‘publication’ in antiquity to question the assumption that any such revising constituted completely new ‘editions’ of the Ecclesiastical History. See Corke-Webster, Eusebius and Empire, 60–64. Caroline Humfress, ‘Patristic Sources’ in The Cambridge Companion to Roman Law (David Johnston, ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 97–118 at 105. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 1.13.5–22. See Histoire du roi Abgar et de Jésus: présentation et traduction du texte syriaque intégral de la doctrine d’Addai (Alain Desreumaux, ed.; Turnhout: Brepols, 1993); Kevin P. Sullivan and Terry G. Wilfong, ‘The Reply of Jesus to King Abgar: A Coptic New Testament Apocryphon Reconsidered (P. Mich. Inv. 6213)’, Bulletin of the Society of American Papyrologists 42 (2005), 107–123; Ilaria L.E. Ramelli, ‘The Possible Origin of the Abgar-Addai Legend: Abgar the Black and Emperor Tiberius’, Journal of Syriac Studies 16:2 (Summer 2013), 325–341; James Corke-Webster, ‘A Man for the Times: Jesus and the Abgar Correspondence in Eusebius of Caesarea’s Ecclesiastical History’, Harvard Theological Review 110:4 (October 2017), 563–587. On the usefulness of such fictional correspondence for an ancient author, see J. Gregory Given, ‘Utility and Variance in Late Antique Witnesses to the Jesus-Abgar Correspondence’, Archiv für Religiongeschichte 17 (2006), 187– 222. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 4.9.1–3, 4.13.1–7, 7.13.1, 8.17.3–10, 9.1.3–6, 9.7.3–14, 9.9.11–12, 9a.1–9, 9.10.7–11, 10.5.2–14, 10.5.15–17, 10.5.18–20, 10.5.21–24, 10.6.1–5, 10.7.1– 2. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5–7. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.2.1–2, 10.8.1.

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114 115

116

Euseb., Hist. eccl. 1.1.1–2. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 9.9–11. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 9.11.8–10.2.2. For the speech, see Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.4.2–72. B.H. Warmington comments that Eusebius’ method of including documentation is ‘too well known to need comment’. See B.H. Warmington, ‘The Sources of Some Constantinian Documents in Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History and the Life of Constantine’, Studia Patristica 18:1 (1985), 93–98 at 93. See also Charles Odhal, ‘Constantine’s Epistle to the Bishops at the Council of Arles: A Defence of Imperial Authorship’, Journal of Religious History 17:3 (June 1993), 274–289 at 275. Erica Carotenuto, ‘Six Constantinian Documents (Eus. H.E. 10.5–7)’, Vigiliae Christianae 56:1 (February 2002), 56–74 at 56, 63–64. Carotenuto, ‘Six Constantinian Documents’, 67–70. Warmington, ‘Sources of Some Constantinian Documents’, 94. Timothy Barnes, ‘The Constantinian Settlement’ in Eusebius, Christianity, and Judaism (Attridge and Hata, eds.), 635–657 at 648. Carotenuto, ‘Six Constantinian Documents’, 56–74 at 56, 63–64, 67. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18–20. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.21–24. On the cursus publicus, see Lukas Lemcke, Imperial Transportation and Communication from the Third to the Late Fourth Century: The Golden Age of the ‘cursus publicus’ (Brussels: Éditions Latomus, 2016). Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.1.2; cf. Millar, Emperor in the Roman World, 215. Barnes follows Otto Seeck in positing a date of 307 for the start of the schism. See Timothy Barnes, ‘The Beginnings of Donatism’, JThS 26:1 (April 1975), 13–22; cf. Otto Seeck, Geschichte des Untergans der antiken Welt, Band III, Anhang (Stuttgart: Metzerschle Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1921), 509. Others argue for a date as late as 312, for which see W.H.C. Frend and K. Clancy, ‘When Did the Donatist Schism Begin?’, JThS 28:1 (April 1977), 104–109. Elsewhere, a date near 307 is favoured, although it is acknowledged the evidence does not exclude the possibility of a later date for the beginning of the North African schism. See François Decret, Early Christianity in North Africa (Cambridge: James Clarke, 2014), 102; David C. Alexander, ‘Rethinking Constantine’s Interaction with the North African “Donatist” Schism’ in Rethinking Constantine: History, Theology, and Legacy (Edward L. Smith, ed.; Eugene: Pickwick, 2014), 37–90 at 44–47. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.15–17 and 10.6.1–5, respectively. See ‘Anullinus 2’ in PLRE, 78–79. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.7.1–2. For the dates, see Barnes, New Empire, 240; cf. W.H.C. Frend, The Rise of Christianity (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984), 490. For example, Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 56–57; Harold A. Drake, Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), 214–216; Noel Lenski, ‘Imperial Legislation’ in The Donatist Schism: Controversy and Context (Richard Miles, ed.; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2018), 171. Jesse A. Hoover, The Donatist Church in an Apocalyptic Age (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 18–24 at 19. It becomes historically appropriate to refer to the faction opposing Caecilian as ‘Donatist’ after April 313 when they described themselves as ‘the party of Donatus’ in their petition to Constantine. See Opt., De schism. donatist. 1.22; Barnes, New Empire, 240. Carotenuto, ‘Six Constantinian Documents’, 56–74 at 61. Examples of vague terminology in these letters can be found in Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.7.1 (παρεξουθενηθεῖσαν τὴν θρῃσκείαν = ‘having set religious worship at naught’) and 10.6.4 (τινὰς μὴ καθεστώσης διανοίας τυγχάνοντας ἀνθρώπους τὸν λαὸν τῆς ἁγιωτάτης καὶ καθολικῆς

56

117 118 119 120 121 122

123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136

137 138 139 140

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts ἐκκλησίας φαύλῃ τινὶ ὑπονοθεύσει βούλεσθαι διαστρέφειν = ‘such men of unstable thoughts who are willing to turn aside the laity of the most holy and Catholic church by reckless corruption’). Carotenuto, ‘Six Constantinian Documents’, 58–59. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.16. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.16. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.6.1, 10.7.2, respectively. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18; August., Ep. 88.2; Barnes, New Empire, 241. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18–20, 10.5.21–24. For the dates of these three documents, see Barnes, New Empire, 241–242. On Miltiades, see Raymond Davis, ‘PreConstantinian Chronology: The Roman Bishopric from A.D. 284 to 314’, JThS 48:2 (October 1997), 439–470. For Chrestus, see Edward Bickersteth Birks, ‘Chrestus (1)’ in DCB 1, 488. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.19–20. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.22–24. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.2–14. For the date, see Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.1. Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.2–12. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.1. On Licinius’ victory over Daia, see Lactant., De mort. pers. 45–48.1. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.2–3. Lenski catalogued several minor differences between Greek and Latin versions, for which, see Lenski, ‘Significance of the Edict of Milan’ in Constantine (A. Edward Siecienski, ed.), 38–41. For these documents of Gallienus and Galerius, see Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.13.1–3 and Lactant., De mort. pers. 34–35.1, respectively. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.4: ἐλευθέραν αἵρεσιν τοῦ ἀκολουθεῖν τῇ θρῃσκείᾳ ᾗ δ' ἂν βουληθῶσιν. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.9–11. Lactant., De mor. pers. 48.2–3, 48.6, 48.10–11; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.5–6, 10.5.8, 10.5.12–13. Lactant., De mort. pers. 24.9; cf. Anastos, ‘The Edict of Milan (313)’, 20–26, 41; Barnes, ‘Constantine after Seventeen Hundred Years’, 186–189 (although, see p. 69 in this volume). Opt., De schism. Donatist. 1.4; August., Parm. 1.19; Retract. 2.17. See W.H.C. Frend, The Donatist Church: A Movement of Protest in Roman North Africa (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1952), 193–207. Opt., De schism. Donatist. 1.13–28. See, for example, Louis Duchesne, Early History of the Christian Church, Vol. 2: The Fourth Century (London: Murray, 1909), 79n1; Frend, The Donatist Church, 207; Edwards, ‘Introduction’ in Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), xvi– xviii; Charles Odahl, Constantine and the Christian Empire (2nd edn.; New York Routledge, 2013), 10. Jer., De vir. ill. 110. Augustine, writing c. 397, included Optatus among the names of men no longer living. See August., De doct. christ. 2.40 (61). Edwards, ‘Introduction’ in Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), xxvi; A.H.M. Jones, The Later Roman Empire, 284–602: A Social, Economic, and Administrative Survey, Vol. 1 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1973), 77. Edwards, ‘Introduction’ in Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), xxvi– xxix. For example, see Opt., De schism. donatist. 1.22–23; cf. Opt., App. 5. Optatus had Constantine responding to the Donatist petition, while the letter with a slightly different version of the emperor’s words is addressed to some Catholic bishops following the Council of Arles (1 August 314). Also, note that I have cited Optatus’ treatise separately from the attached appendices.

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 57 141 For a summary of scholarship, see Frend, The Donatist Church, xi–xv. 142 Norman H. Baynes, ‘Optatus’, JThS 26:101 (October 1924), 37–44; Norman H. Baynes, ‘Optatus: An Addendum’, JThS 26:104 (July 1925), 404–406; Odahl, ‘Constantine’s Epistle to the Bishops at the Council of Arles’, 275n7–8; Edwards, ‘Introduction’ in Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), xxvi, xxix. Concerning ‘Aelafius’, see Edwards, ‘Introduction’ in Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), xxviii, 181n1; ‘Aelafius’ in PLRE, 16. I use the name in quotes, although supporting the genuineness of Opt., App. 3. 143 Opt., App. 3; cf. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18–24. 144 Opt., App. 3. 145 Barnes, New Empire, 239. 146 Jonathan Bardill, Constantine: Divine Emperor of the Christian Golden Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 1. 147 On the date, see Barnes, New Empire, 242. 148 Barnes, New Empire, 242; Lenski, ‘Imperial Legislation’ in Donatist Schism (Miles, ed.), 200–201. 149 Opt., App. 5; Corcoran, Empire of the Tetrarchs, 324–325, 335. 150 Opt., App. 5: Constantinus Augustus episcopis catholicis carissimis fratribus salutem. 151 For the full quotation by Constantine, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 4.24: ἀλλ' ὑμεῖς μὲν τῶν εἴσω τῆς ἐκκλησίας, ἐγὼ δὲ τῶν ἐκτὸς ὑπὸ θεοῦ καθεσταμένος ἐπίσκοπος ἂν εἴην. See commentary on this passage in Eusebius: Life of Constantine (Averil Cameron and Stuart H. Hall, trans. and eds; CLAH; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 320. 152 Opt., App. 5. 153 Opt., App. 5; cf. pp. 141–142 in this volume. 154 Opt., App. 5. 155 Opt., App. 5: ceterum direxi meos homines, qui eosdem infandos deceptores religionis protinus ad comitatum meum perducant, ut ibi degant, ibi sibi mortem peius pervideant. dedi quoque litteras conpetentes ad eum, qui vicariam praefecturam per Africam tuetur, ut, quotquot huius insaniae similes invenerit, statim eos ad comitatum meum dirigat, ne ulteris sub tanta claritate dei nostri ea ab ipsis fiant, quae maximam iracundiam caelestis providentiae possint incitare. On the emperor’s role vis-à-vis the bishops, see Tarmo Toom, ‘An Expedient Doctrine: Separation of Church and State in the Donatist Controversy’, Journal of European Baptist Studies 20:1 (2020), 63–77. 156 Opt., App. 6. The headings of Barnes and Edwards add the descriptor ‘Donatist’, though this does not appear in the Latin. See Barnes, New Empire, 243; Edwards, Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), 192. 157 Barnes, New Empire, 243–244; Edwards, Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), 192n1. 158 For Constantine’s attested movements around this time, see Barnes, New Empire, 72. On Donatist ‘obstinacy’ from the emperor’s perspective, see pp. 139–144 in this volume. 159 Edwards, Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), 195n1; cf. Barnes, New Empire, 243–244. 160 Barnes, New Empire, 244–245. 161 See ‘Domitius Celsus 8’ in PLRE, 195. 162 Opt., App. 7. 163 Opt., App. 7: easdem personas, quae res istius modi concitant faciuntque, ut non cum ea, qua oportet, veneratione summus deus colatur, perdam atque discutiam. See also Opt., De schism. donatist. 1.26. 164 Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 60. 165 August., Ep. 88.3; Barnes, New Empire, 244–245; Lenski, ‘Imperial Legislation’ in Donatist Schism (Miles, ed.), 204–205; Barnes, Constantine, 105. 166 Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 67.

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167 For a narrative summary, see Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 60; David S. Potter, The Roman Empire at Bay, A.D. 180–395 (2nd edn.; London: Routledge, 2014), 409. 168 See pp. 73–76 in this volume. 169 Barnes, New Empire, 246. 170 Opt., App. 9. 171 Barnes, New Empire, 247; Edwards, Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), 198n1 and 201n13. 172 On the date, see Harold Drake, ‘What Eusebius Knew: The Genesis of the “Vita Constantini”’, Classical Philology 83:1 (January 1988), 20–38; Timothy Barnes, ‘Panegyric, History and Hagiography in Eusebius’ Life of Constantine’ in The Making of Orthodoxy: Essays in Honour of Henry Chadwick (Rowan Williams, ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 94–123 at 112–113; Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall, ‘Introduction’ in Eusebius: Life of Constantine (CAHS; Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall, trans. and eds.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 9–10. 173 Barnes, ‘Panegyric, History, and Hagiography’, 97–98, 102, 108–110; cf. Barnes, Constantine, 12–13. See also Giorgio Pasquali, ‘Die Composition der Vita Constantini des Eusebius’, Hermes 45:3 (1910), 369–386. 174 Averil Cameron, ‘Eusebius’ Vita Constantini and the Construction of Constantine’ in Portraits: Biographical Representation in the Greek and Latin Literature of the Roman Empire (Mark Edwards and Simon Swain, eds.; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), 145–174 at 145–148. 175 Cameron, ‘Construction of Constantine’, 152–154, 163–174. For a fuller comparison of the Life of Constantine and Life of Antony, see Averil Cameron, ‘Form and Meaning: The Vita Constantini and the Vita Antonii’ in Greek Biography and Panegyric in Late Antiquity (Tomas Hägg and Philip Rousseau, eds.; Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 72–88. 176 On the Life of Antony’s date, see Cameron, ‘Construction of Constantine’, 169. Cameron’s ‘soon after Antony’s death in 356’ is made more specific by Leslie Bernard, who places the date of composition between 356 and 359. See Leslie W. Bernard, ‘Did Athanasius Know Antony?’, Ancient Society 24 (1993), 139–149 at 146. For extended discussion of the date, see Leslie W. Bernard, ‘The Date of S. Athanasius’ Vita Antonii’, Vigiliae Christianae 28 (1975), 169–175. 177 Ath., Vit. Ant. Prologue. See Bibliotheca Hagiographica Graeca (3rd edn.; François Halkin, ed.; Brussels: Société des Bollandes, 1957), 140 = Clavis Patrum Graecorum, Vol. 2: Ab Athansio ad Chrysostumum (Maurice Geerard, ed.; Turnhout: Brepols, 1974), 2101. Translation by Robert T. Meyer: see St. Athanasius: The Life of Saint Antony (Ancient Christian Writers; Robert T. Meyer, trans.; New York: Newman Press, 1978), 17–98 at 17. 178 Euseb., Vit. Const. 1.4. Translation by Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall in Eusebius: Life of Constantine (Cameron and Hall, trans. and eds.), 69. 179 Cameron, ‘Construction of Constantine’, 174. 180 Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 265–271, esp. 269; Cameron and Hall, ‘Introduction’ in Eusebius: Life of Constantine (Cameron and Hall, eds.), 1–3. 181 The full reference for each letter is provided in this book’s Appendix. 182 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.64–72, 3.17–20, 3.60, 3.61, 3.62, 3.64–65, 4.42. 183 For a summary of this debate between 1853 and 1954, see Barnes, Constantine, 6–16. 184 A.H.M. Jones and T.C. Skeat, ‘Notes on the Genuineness of the Constantinian Documents in Eusebius’ Life of Constantine’, JEH 5:2 (October 1954), 196–200. 185 Jones and Skeat, ‘Notes’, 200. 186 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.64–72, 3.17–20, respectively. 187 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24–42, 2.48–60, respectively.

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 59 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196

197 198

199

200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207

208

Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.23.1–2. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24.1–3, 2.55.1–56.2. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24–42. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.48–60. Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.3. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.30–34. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.46.1–3. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 208–211. Rodney Stark, The Triumph of Christianity: How the Jesus Movement Became the World’s Largest Religion (New York: HarperOne, 2011), 49–165. See also Rodney Stark, The Rise of Christianity: How the Obscure, Marginal Jesus Movement Became the Dominant Religious Force in the Western World in a Few Centuries (New York: HarperOne, 1996). For criticism of Stark, see Elizabeth A. Castelli, ‘Gender, Theory, and The Rise of Christianity: A Response to Rodney Stark’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 6:2 (Summer 1998), 227–257; Ramsay MacMullen, The Second Church: Popular Christianity, A.D. 200–400 (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009), 102–104; George Lundskow, ‘The Concept of Choice in the Rise of Christianity: A Critique of Rational Choice Theory’ in Marx, Critical Theory, and Religion: A Critique of Rational Choice (Warren S. Goldstein, ed.; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 223–248. Cod. Theod. 16.10.1–12. See Brown, Power and Persuasion, 118–158; K.W. Harl, ‘Sacrifice and Pagan Belief in Fifth- and Sixth-Century Byzantium’, Past & Present 128 (August 1990), 7–27. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.72.2. For Eusebius of Nicomedia, see Robert M. Grant, ‘Religion and Politics at the Council of Nicaea’, Journal of Religion 55:1 (January 1975), 1–12; David M. Gwynn, ‘Constantine and the Other Eusebius’, Prudentia 31:2 (November 1999), 94–124. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.64–68. On the date, see R.P.C. Hanson, The Search for Christian Doctrine of God: The Arian Controversy, 318–381 (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005 [1988]), 137; Rowan Williams, Arius: Heresy and Tradition (2nd edn.; London: SCM Press, 2001), 58. See Opitz, Urk. 25, 26 (=Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.17–20; see n16 above). For the date, see Opitz, Athanasius Werke 3.1 (1934), 52, 54. See pp. 162–164 in this volume. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.18.1. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 217. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 217. Opitz, Urk. 20, 25, 27, 28, 29, 32, 33, 34. Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 59, 61–62, 68, 70, 86. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius, 112. For the work by Athanasius, see Athanasius Werke 2.1: Die Apologien, Lfg. 1–7 (Hans-Georg Opitz, ed.; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1935– 1941), 1–45. The latest critical edition of Socrates is Sokrates Kirchengeschichte (Günther Christian Hansen, ed.; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1995), which is reprinted in a 2010 edition published by De Gruyter. For critical text of the anonymous history of ‘Gelasius of Cyzicus’, see Anonyme Kirchengeschichte (Günther Christian Hansen, ed.; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2002). Timothy Barnes outlines the major arguments for particular dates while contending for his own choice of c. 352–353 in Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius, 198–199. Richard Hanson prefers a date of 356–357, while Lewis Ayres generally accepts Barnes’ arguments in assuming a date of 353. For these, see Hanson, Search for Christian Doctrine, 419, 438–439; Lewis Ayres, ‘Athanasius’ Initial Defense of the Term Ὁμοούσιος: Re-reading the De Decretis’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 12:3 (Fall 2004), 337–359 at 338.

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209 For arguments concerning the date of Athanasius’ Apology, see A.H.M. Jones, ‘The Date of the Apologia Contra Arianos of Athanasius’, JThS 5:2 (October 1954), 224– 227; Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius, 6, 25–26, 192–195; David Gwynn, ‘The Construction of a “Heretical Party” in the Apologia Contra Arianos of Athanasius of Alexandria’, Prudentia 35:2 (2003), 161–187 at 166–167; Charles Kannengiesser, ‘The Dating of Athanasius’ Double Apology and Three Treatises against the Arians’, ZAC 10:1 (October 2006), 19–33. 210 Theresa Urbainczyk, Socrates of Constantinople: Historian of Church and State (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997), 19–20. 211 Phot., Bib. 1, 15, 88. 212 Phot., Bib. 15, 88. 213 Phot., Bib. 88; cf. Gel., Hist. eccl. Pr. 2–9. 214 For the Syrian text, see Paris syr. 62 and Brit. Mus. Add. 14, 526 and 528. For the Greek, see Eduard Schwartz, NGG, 289. 215 Syriac: see Brit. Mus. Add. 14, 528 and Vat. Borg. Syr. 82. Greek: Ath., De decr. nic. 39; Soc. 1.9.30; Gel., Hist. eccl. 2.36.1. 216 For Greek text of Theodoret’s history, see Theodoret Kirchengeschichte (Léon Parmentier and Günther Christian Hansen, eds.; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009 [1954]). 217 Greek text of the letter is found in Epiphanius III: Panarion haer. 65–80, De Fide (Karl Holl and Jürgen Dummer, eds.; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1985). 218 For example, see Williams, Arius, 48–81; Hanson, Search for Christian Doctrine, 134–135, 173n74, 257–258. 219 Athanasius Werke 3.1: Dokumente zur Geschichte des Arianischen Streites (Hanns Christof Brennecke, Uta Heil, Annette von Stockhausen, and Angelika Wintjes, eds.; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2007). The letters affected, as numbered here in Opitz’s 1934 edition with the 2007 numbering in parentheses, are Opitz, Urk. 17 (19), 20 (22), 34 (27), 33 (28), 25 (29), 26 (30), 27 (31), 28 (32), 29 (33), 32 (37). 220 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.64–67. 221 Williams mentions the tour of the East beginning in November 324, from which the letter says Constantine had turned back. See Williams, Arius, 48–49; cf. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.72.2. Hanson dates the letter to the end of 324, but seems to approve Opitz’s locating the writing of this letter in Nicomedia (which is not supported by the letter’s text). See Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.72.2; cf. Hanson, Search for Christian Doctrine, 137. Sara Parvis suggests the respective dates of fall 324 and early 325 for Opitz, Urk. 17 and 20. See Sara Parvis, Marcellus of Ancyra and the Lost Years of the Arian Controversy, 325–345 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 76–77. This does not significantly differ from the dates suggested for these documents by Williams (Christmas 324 for Urk. 17 with no suggestion for Urk. 20) or Opitz (October 324 for Urk. 17 and spring 325 for Urk. 20). See Williams, Arius, 58; Opitz, Athanasius Werke 3.1 (1934), 32, 41. 222 Opitz, Urk. 34 (27), 33 (28), respectively. 223 Opitz, Urk. 33.2. 224 For Constantine’s quotations of Arius, see Opitz, Urk. 34.2, 34.5, 34.8–9, 34.11, 34.29, 34.32, 34.36. These need not be direct quotations in every case. The emperor reacted strongly here against Arius’ apparent claim that the people were on his side. Arius may have used that claim in an attempt to pressure Constantine to urge Arius’ recognition by the bishop of Alexandria. 225 See pp. 173–174, 195–196, 206–207 in this volume. 226 Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 1–2. 227 Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 58. 228 Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius, 28–30. 229 Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 1–2, 59; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.9; Sozom., Hist. eccl. 1.9. The charges to which Athanasius addressed his defence were brought by the Meletians, whom Eusebius initially supported by persuading Constantine to grant them a hear-

The Constantinian correspondence on ecclesiastical conflicts 61 ing. See Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius, 20–21. On Eusebius of Nicomedia, see n198 above. 230 Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 59–60. 231 Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 62.7. 232 Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 83.4, 86.2, 86.10, 86.12; cf. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius, 193–194.

2

The doctrine of divine favour and agency

The Battle of the Milvian Bridge, fought north of Rome on 28 October 312, concluded with the accidental drowning of Maxentius followed the next day by Constantine’s victorious march into the city.1 But this confrontation could have easily gone the other way, as Maxentius possessed a greater number of forces and had twice managed to repel the invading armies of his rivals. About five years previously, Galerius Augustus had ordered his chosen western Augustus, Severus, to march towards Rome in order to wrest control of Italy and Africa from Maxentius. But Severus’ own legions deserted him as he stood outside the city walls, and he was forced to flee with a handful of loyal soldiers. Maximian—whom Maxentius had summoned to his support out of unenthusiastic retirement—pursued Severus to the city of Ravenna where the latter was either executed or committed suicide. Galerius then invaded Italy in order to destroy Maxentius himself. He, too, was abandoned by his soldiers outside of Rome’s walls, and those who retreated with him were set loose to devastate the Italian countryside. By 312, Constantine had consolidated his position as Augustus in Gaul, Britain, and Spain after assuming power in place of his father on 25 July 306.2 He sealed an alliance with Licinius, who ruled in the Balkan provinces, by offering his half-sister Constantia in marriage. Concord between Constantine and Licinius threatened Maximinus Daia, who controlled the remaining eastern provinces and reached a secret understanding with Maxentius.3 But Constantine had already swept into northern Italy and taken the cities of Turin, Milan, and Verona before turning towards Rome. Maxentius possessed the larger force, and the battle shifted in his favour until Constantine threw everything he had against the city near the Milvian Bridge on 27 October 312. Maxentius thus far refused to be drawn outside of the city on the strength of an oracle promising doom if he set foot outside its walls. But inside Rome, some voices were growing bolder in their acclamation of Constantine. Maxentius was shaken by such reports, and consulted the Sibylline books for further divine assurance. He was comforted by a prophecy that ‘the enemy of Rome would perish that day’, and rushed out of the city to claim his victory on the auspicious 28 October: six years to the day after he took power. He started across the Tiber on a bridge he had made of boats joined together, which had apparently been rigged in order to trap Constantine. It gave way, however, as Maxentius made his crossing and sent the princeps hurtling into DOI: 10.4324/9781003215677-3

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 63 the river. Weighed down by his armour, Maxentius drowned; his body was discovered on 29 October and beheaded as Constantine marched triumphantly into Rome. It was an unlikely victory for Constantine, for whom the conclusion was so much in doubt that he bet everything on a final direct attack. But almost as soon as Constantine proclaimed Christianity in his new territories—in Italy and Africa sometime shortly after defeating Maxentius in 312, and later in the East following his eventual overthrow of Licinius in 324—he perceived grave threats due to reports of divisions among some Christians. Convinced that any disturbances in religion might provoke God’s vengeance, Constantine worked to restore divine favour by using the power of his position to move disputing Christians towards embracing unity.4 Several scholars have noted the close relationship of divine favour with Constantine’s campaigns to unite the churches. A.H.M. Jones and Harold Drake suggest that the emperor’s priority was securing divine blessing rather than unity itself.5 Others, such as Alistair Kee and Jonathan Bardill, reverse the order of importance so that unity preceded divine favour as Constantine’s main concern.6 As will be shown below, Jones and Drake are right to recognise the significance for Constantine of seeking and maintaining divine favour while I contend that ecclesiastical unity was a means of preserving such heavenly approval and a sign of its continuing reality.7 Furthermore, the emperor’s pattern of ‘managing’ divine favour when he perceived its continuance to be endangered by ecclesiastical divisions has not received prior analysis. This chapter shows how such a pattern operated consistently from the time that Constantine first engaged with the schism in North Africa (widely known as the ‘Donatist schism’) through his involvement in theological conflict in the East associated with Alexander and Arius. Various examples of imperial correspondence produced under Constantine between roughly 313 and 325 are examined here from the perspective of his approach to ecclesiastical unity as a means of maintaining divine favour. I argue that in relation to Constantine’s desire for unity, he was mainly concerned to be seen as remaining on good terms with divinity through his expressions of gratitude as a beneficiary of supernatural assistance in battle. In this regard, he remained a rather typical emperor whose main innovations concerning public religion were to be first among emperors who chose to associate with the God of Christianity and bring imperial power to bear on internal Christian conflicts. The Donatist schism and the ‘Arian controversy’ will be discussed in turn, so that Constantine’s emerging pattern of administering divine favour can be established in regards to both kinds of ecclesiastical division—over rites and practice in North Africa, as well as theology in the East. Constantine viewed the Donatist schism as a problem of ecclesiastical organisation involving the church’s rites and practices in designating a rightful bishop of Carthage. By contrast, he understood that the widespread conflict among Christians in the East was centred on matters of belief and teaching. The second section describes this pattern itself as it appears in the imperial correspondence, beginning with Constantine’s religious policy proclaimed in agreement with Licinius in 313 and proceeding to examine how he began working to restore God’s favour when he perceived that ecclesiastical conflict risked divine

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wrath. The third section demonstrates the continuity of the emperor’s pattern for managing divine favour effectively by considering the early stages of his intervention in the dispute between Alexander and Arius. First, however, Constantine’s words and actions obtaining divine aid are contextualised within a long-standing tradition by Roman generals, dictators, and emperors to seek the gods’ sanction for their activities. Four documents are excluded from discussion in this chapter, despite their dates that fall within this study’s chronological focus. First, Constantine’s letter on the celebration of Easter (dated June 325) begins and concludes with references to divine favour.8 However, these allusions add nothing significant to the discussion below, nor do they contain any aspects that might detract from the arguments made or conclusions reached. This letter is treated more fully in Chapter 5.9 I have also excluded the letters to the church of Alexandria, to the church of Nicomedia, and to Theodotus, bishop of Laodicea.10 These, too, are dealt with more extensively in subsequent chapters and have no pertinent impact on analysis in this chapter. What these four letters do contribute is evidence that Constantine’s basic views regarding divine favour and his own agency remained consistent throughout the rest of his life.

Divine favour in the Roman Empire before Constantine The assumption was common in the ancient world that victory in battle was granted by the god(s) either called upon in advance or thanked appropriately afterwards.11 This was a notable motif in the writings of Roman historians from the early imperial period. Livy, writing under Augustus’ reign about the Second Punic War (218–201 bc), provided a short speech in which the general Scipio Africanus supposedly assured his army of the gods’ favour prior to the siege of New Carthage in 209 bc. During the battle, the elements appeared to cooperate with the efforts of Scipio’s troops to reach the city walls by allowing the men to cross a shallow body of water that stood in their way. Scipio presented this to his soldiers as miraculous and urged them to follow in Neptune’s footsteps.12 In the early second century ad, Plutarch described Roman soldiers of the late Republic under Marius expressing frustration at their commander’s apparent slowness to order an attack on some Germanic tribes near the Rhône River beyond the Alps. Marius informed them that he was merely awaiting the right moment that had been revealed by divine oracle. To demonstrate Marius’ alleged piety, Plutarch discussed a Syrian prophetess who sometimes accompanied the general as well as other omens and portents that suggested divine favour on the army under his leadership. After Marius’ troops finally attacked and won the battle, he gathered the best of the spoils and offered some of it as a sacrifice in gratitude for the victory (and for the timely news that he was elected consul for the fifth time).13 However, the gods must have decided later to instead favour Marius’ rival, Lucius Cornelius Sulla, who apparently offered credit and gratitude to Fortune in his memoirs (largely lost) for all his success—mainly at Marius’ expense. Sulla was also said to have associated the oracular Apollo of Delphi with his eventual defeat

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 65 of Marius.14 Pompey ‘the Great’ and Julius Caesar each claimed competing interpretations of divine prodigies just before their decisive confrontation at Pharsalus (48 bc). Pompey is said to have dreamed that he dedicated the spoils of war to Venus the Victorious amid the applause of a crowd seated in his eponymous theatre. Despite the positive connotations of the imagery for Pompey, such a dream also admitted of a potentially gloomy interpretation since Caesar was well known to declare his ancestral descent from the goddess. On the morning of the battle, a bright light supposedly appeared over Caesar’s camp and part of its radiance came to rest above Pompey’s troops.15 According to Appian, writing in the mid-second century, this same sign was preceded by Caesar’s midnight sacrifice to Mars and Venus accompanied by his vow to build a temple to the latter divinity as bringer of victory. Appian added the detail that this mysterious light went out as soon as it reached Pompey’s camp. Each army interpreted the sign in its own favour, and yet Pompey’s sacrificial ritual on the same night was disrupted and his troops were accordingly gripped with fear. After attempting to calm them, Pompey fell asleep after which he claimed to have dreamed of his dedication of victory to Venus which may not have instilled the confidence for which it was intended.16 In addition to these generals under the late Republic, various emperors of the first two centuries ad carried on this tradition of associating protection and success with specific divine patrons to whom gratitude for protection and success was ritually expressed. Augustus proclaimed his pious acts towards the gods by building temples, consecrating war spoils, restoring to various temples in Asia Minor all the riches that the defeated Antony had earlier confiscated, and ordering numerous silver statues of himself melted down and the money used to provide the temple of Apollo next to his own house with golden tripods for sacrifices.17 Trajan credited an un-named ‘being of greater than human stature’—who could have easily been a person of larger build strong enough to pull the emperor out of a ruined structure—for his protection in a terrible earthquake that struck Antioch in late 115 while the emperor was in residence.18 A sixth-century chronicler, John Malalas of Antioch, recounted a version in which Trajan sacrificed a young girl named Kalliope and placed a statue of her in the likeness of Tyche, goddess of urban prosperity, in Antioch’s restored theatre.19 Malalas’ history, however, contains numerous such instances, which may serve as a polemical motif rather than reflecting an actual ritual murder—though the Romans still sometimes practiced what they claimed to abhor.20 Six scenes of Trajan’s presence at a sacrifice are carved into this emperor’s column, which was originally dedicated on 12 May 113 perhaps as part of preparations for his Parthian campaign under the auspices of Mars the Avenger.21 Later in the second century, Marcus Aurelius was associated with a pair of weather-related occurrences that were interpreted as indicating divine assistance when hard-pressed against the Quadi in eastern Germania (modern Slovakia). The troops under Marcus experienced as god-sent the lightning and rain that routed their opponents during a hot and thirsty battle. Various versions of the story imply that the storm was sudden, and resulted from an Egyptian sorcerer’s enchantments, the prayers of Christians among Marcus’ soldiers, or supplication of the gods by Marcus himself.22

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By the late third century, emperors increasingly publicised close personal links with particular gods as they continued seeking their assistance to restore an empire in crisis.23 Aurelian was said to have paid homage to the Syrian sun god, and built a temple in Rome to Sol Invictus (‘the unconquered sun’) after defeating Queen Zenobia to return the eastern frontier provinces under Roman authority following a short-lived ‘Palmyrene Empire’ in that region.24 The imperial tetrarchy initiated by Diocletian, out of which Constantine emerged, based its legitimacy on each emperor’s association with either Jupiter or Hercules.25 Writing a couple of decades after the victory at the Milvian Bridge, Eusebius of Caesarea claimed to have heard Constantine speak of his own memories of the event: this detailed and dramatic narrative contains the so-called ‘vision of Constantine’ as it may be most widely remembered. The cross-shaped light in the sky at mid-day, the words ‘conquer by this’, and the subsequent dream in which Christ ordered Constantine to re-produce a particular symbol on his soldiers’ shields are all important elements of whatever the emperor claimed to have experienced.26 Lactantius, writing within three years of Maxentius’ defeat, only mentioned a dream in which Constantine received instructions to place the non-specific ‘heavenly sign of God’ on their shields.27 An anonymous orator described a vision of Apollo in terms similar to what Eusebius wrote that he heard from Constantine, although this took place a couple of years earlier than the war against Maxentius.28 Regardless of what actually occurred, if anything at all, the most significant aspect of the Battle at the Milvian Bridge is that Constantine shortly afterwards identified the god from whom he sought aid in that engagement as the God worshipped by Christians.29 Victory against Licinius just over a decade later confirmed this religious identification in Constantine’s mind as he continued to profess and support Christianity to the end of his life. Two axioms are important to keep in mind. The first involves the relationship of religious piety with political ambition: any possibly genuine concern by an emperor to obtain assurance of divine approval cannot necessarily be separated from the presence of real political concerns or motives. Public perceptions of the emperors’ effective handling of divine favour contributed to upholding their rule as legitimate; political incentives for gaining, holding, or increasing power should not be underestimated.30 Neither should reasons of religious piety, regardless of any level of genuine devotion, be ignored or disconnected from political concerns. After victory, legitimacy was an emperor’s chief benefit received upon the presumption that the appropriate deity had been duly satisfied. Thus, for example, the Romans urged Augustus to assume the dictatorship in 22 bc after flood, lightning strikes, portents, disease, and famine struck the capital. These were taken as signs of divine displeasure, for which increased power for Augustus was viewed as the solution.31 It is interesting to note in Cassius Dio’s account that the people initially thought their disasters at this time were due to Augustus’ lacking consular power (an authority desired, it is implied, by the gods on Augustus’ behalf) but that they proceeded to urge him to assume the dictatorship. In this way, extraordinary authority could be potentially legitimised as an act of traditional piety—though Augustus accepted at this time only the responsibility of overseeing the city’s grain

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 67 supply. By contrast, emperors were discredited when they were deemed failures at maintaining the empire’s good fortune and welfare by not coping effectively with any signs of divine displeasure. Diocletian’s immediate predecessors—Carus, Numerian, and Carinus—were each subsequently remembered as victims of the gods (who may have acted through or been anticipated by human activity).32 A second principle to keep in mind has to do with posthumous evaluations of an emperor’s reign: verdicts of divine approval or disapproval did not in every case mean the difference between ‘good’ or ‘bad’ emperors. Marcus Aurelius is considered the last of the ‘five good emperors’, but ruled during a time of terrible plague and constant warfare, and had questionable judgement concerning his wife and son—all potential signs of divine reproof.33 Despite the short reigns of Carus, Carinus, and Numerian—each of which terminated as just described in ways that might suggest the gods’ objection—these three emperors were judged differently in the semi-fictional fourth-century Historia Augusta. Carus was deemed a ‘good emperor’, and Numerian was said to be ‘remarkably well-mannered and truly worthy of empire’—yet Carinus was described as having many of a tyrant’s typical vices.34 Constantine was variously portrayed in the ancient sources. Eusebius of Caesarea honoured him as a ‘friend of God’, while his nephew and eventual successor Julian satirised him as exploiting Christianity’s teachings about divine forgiveness.35 Eutropius and Aurelius Victor were less overtly hostile but nevertheless ambivalent in their judgement. For Eutropius, Constantine rated among the best rulers at the start of his reign but ended in mediocrity: even so, a comet observed shortly before his death indicated to this author that Constantine was ‘deservedly enrolled among the gods’.36 Victor wrote of this emperor that ‘everything would have appeared to have been in accord with divine principles if [Constantine] had not admitted unworthy men to public office’.37 Zosimus treated Constantine as impious towards all the gods, whether pagan or Christian—practicing traditional religion without sincere devotion and taking advantage of Christianity as earlier claimed by Julian.38 Yet, Zosimus’ condemnation of Constantine as responsible for the empire’s decline as that author perceived the situation in his own day was connected more with military changes in frontier defence strategy than religion.39 Whether or not Julian and Zosimus were right about Constantine’s motives for embracing Christianity, the latter at least was wrong about the timing—the year of the mysterious deaths of Crispus and Fausta (326) is far too late since the emperor had already acknowledged the God of Christianity publicly for at least the previous 12 years.40 But this identification of the summus deus with Christian worship emerged more gradually than occurring over the night before and the morning after 28 October 312.

Constantine’s pattern for managing divine favour Seeking divine favour: the ‘edict of Milan’ With victory at the Milvian Bridge, Constantine acted in accordance with the Roman tradition that a divine patron who had granted benefits should be shown

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the appropriate forms of gratitude. But upon entering Rome on 29 October 312, Constantine may have declined to participate in the customary sacrifice to Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill.41 The omission of this custom surely sent a signal to everyone that Constantine intended, at least in this respect, to be a different kind of emperor—one whose god either did not require sacrifice or might even find such a ritual offensive. Even if this event or its timing remains in doubt, there was yet no clear recognition that the summus deus was identifiable with the God of Christians in the document commonly known as the ‘edict of Milan’, which was produced in the names of both Constantine and Licinius and published in June 313. After defeating Maxentius, Constantine moved quickly to proclaim his continuing hopes for divine assistance in agreement with Licinius when they met at Milan in February 313. According to Lactantius, the two emperors had decided on an alliance with the betrothal of Constantine’s half-sister, Constantia, to Licinius in order to strengthen both emperors against their respective rivals—Maxentius and Maximinus Daia.42 By the time their compact was sealed by a marriage ceremony at Milan, Constantine had removed Maxentius to reign supreme in the West but Licinius was yet to confront Daia for mastery of the East.43 Therefore, settling questions concerning religion was an urgent political and military matter so that Constantine’s rule over his additional territories and Licinius’ coming war against Daia might both be proclaimed as divinely sanctioned.44 The written form of their agreement on this issue was published at Nicomedia in June 313, by which time Licinius’ prayer to the summus deus for victory over Daia was seemingly granted so that, like Constantine, he was obliged to display his gratitude.45 Scholarly literature on this document is considerable, most arguments tending to favour the initiative of one emperor over another in producing what is variously designated an edict, rescript, or imperial letter.46 The document itself is best viewed as an imperial letter with some characteristics of an edict, though this should not be misunderstood as suggesting that it is an edict. The forms in which we have this letter appear to be a pair of copies that were sent from Licinius to the governors of Bithynia (Lactantius’ earlier version re-produced in his On the Deaths of the Persecutors) and Palestine (preserved with very minor differences in Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History).47 Lactantius referred to the document as a letter (litteras) sent to the governor of Bithynia (who is directly addressed and given specific instructions) and that Licinius ordered displayed at Nicomedia on June 13.48 Thus, it might be expected that the wording might originate with Licinius. Timothy Barnes holds that Licinius alone disseminated this letter in the name of Constantine as well as his own.49 On the contrary, Noel Lenski partially grounds his argument in favour of Constantinian predominance over the policies and language described in this letter by pointing to Constantine’s name in the foremost position while accepting Lactantius’ assertion that the senate in Rome had previously conferred senior status on him following Maxentius’ defeat. Yet, Lenski’s argument is also based on the unconvincing assumption that this letter’s language emphasising divine favour is unique to Constantine.50 However, Galerius’ earlier deathbed proclamation justified both the previous persecution of Christians and their release at this time from the obligation to sacrifice by appealing to divinely

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 69 bestowed security.51 Cassius Dio, writing under the reign of Severus Alexander in the third century, placed a lengthy speech of advice in the mouth of Agrippa to Augustus in which the latter was urged to foster religion according to traditional forms for the sake of general security and stability.52 I am also not persuaded by the fuller version of Barnes’ argument, which includes the contention that this document extends the same toleration and restitution of property to the East that was already available to Christians in the West under Constantine since he assumed power in 306.53 This relies on a reading of a brief passage in Lactantius’ On the Deaths of the Persecutors that is too specific given its relatively vague language, and on this point I believe Lenski is correct.54 While it seems difficult to read ‘to restore the Christians to their God and manner of life’ (Christianos cultui ac deo suo reddere) or ‘he confirmed restoration of the holy religion’ (eius sanctio sanctae religionis restitutae) in any other way than indicating toleration of Christianity, there is no basis to assume this included anything beyond discontinuing his father’s earlier destruction of church buildings and perhaps allowing them to be rebuilt.55 But these actions are a far cry from the liberty rendered to ‘Christians and to all men’ along with the restoration of confiscated property at public expense determined by the later action of both emperors in this letter of June 313. In my view, therefore, such arguments leaning towards one emperor or another as the driving force behind the policies and language in this document are inconclusive. For present purposes, I approach this document on its own terms—as a copy of an imperial letter produced and distributed to various provincial governors in the names of both Constantine and Licinius as a joint declaration concerning their religious policy—rather than engaging in the uncertain task of trying to distinguish between any aspects that originate with either emperor. The letter describes the specific terms to which both emperors agreed to meet their shared obligations to the summus deus whom they had called on for aid. In this way, the ‘edict of Milan’ serves to show how Constantine and Licinius sought divine sanction for and blessing on their shared rule by distinguishing these policies from courses of action taken by recent predecessors who alternately persecuted or tolerated Christians.56 The primary principle behind this document was to safeguard officially accepted forms of religion as a means of securing and maintaining the legitimacy of Constantine’s and Licinius’ shared rule through divine sanction.57 Such a declaration of the importance of supernatural blessing on imperial endeavours was the first step in the developing pattern to which Constantine held consistently from this point until the end of his reign. The letter began: When I, Constantine Augustus and I, Licinius Augustus, happily came together at Milan and had in consideration all things with regard to the public security and convenience, we thought that, among the rest of the things that we saw will be beneficial to most men, the first arrangements we certainly ought to have made were those things that preserved reverence of the divinity, so that we might render both to Christians and to all men the free

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Thus, the two victorious emperors declared that ensuring the continuance of divine favour was a matter of high priority for the common welfare and the legitimacy of their shared rule. But just which god Constantine and Licinius had in mind here was not clear. Liberty in religion was granted, according to the emperors’ written agreement, so that ‘whatever divinity there is in the heavenly throne’ (quo quicquid divinitatis in sede caelesti) might be favourably disposed.59 There are various possible explanations for such apparent ambiguity. Drake has described this policy of Licinius and Constantine as ‘defining state security in terms of a general monotheism’ that all could support.60 Jonathan Bardill believes that this non-specific language enabled the two emperors to address themselves to polytheistic pagans and Christians in terms suggesting the same divine reality behind their obvious differences in belief and practice.61 Another possibility, expressed by Elisabeth Herman-Otto, is that the avoidance of more precisely identifying the summus deus expressed ‘the lowest common [religious] denominator’ between the two emperors.62 This option presupposes definite differences in religious outlook between Constantine and Licinius, an assumption that cannot be firmly established for this specific period in their reigns. The suggestions by Drake and Bardill are less dependent on such conjecture. Regardless, the indefinite language concerning deity in the ‘edict of Milan’ allowed the two emperors to communicate with their subjects about a matter the emperors deemed of first importance: the empire’s general security and prosperity as embodied in their rule and guaranteed by policies intended to ensure continuing divine favour. The latter half of this letter went beyond the terms of religious and political compromise indicated at its commencement, making specific provisions for restoring corporately owned Christian property at public expense.63 Viewed in the context of the whole letter, these regulations favoured Christians without transgressing the general principle of pleasing whatever god might be seated in heaven’s throne by allowing all religious practice—unlike later communications under Constantine’s sole rule, no bans on sacrifice were mentioned and no form of belief was alluded to in derogatory terms.64 The same imperial directives imply official recognition by both emperors that persecution as a means of violently enforcing religious conformity was not merely a failed strategy for obtaining or restoring divine favour, but should be treated as a crime whose victims deserved recompense.65 The emperors therefore intended to ensure that no potential avenue of heavenly benevolence would be neglected or violated. Such concern for preserving the blessing of the summus deus next appears shortly afterwards in surviving documents produced in the name of Constantine alone in the context of a religious schism among his Christian subjects in North Africa.

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 71 Endangered divine favour: the Donatist schism Divine favour was not unconditional, but had to be managed with careful attention. Seeking a god’s help was no guarantee of victory if one looked to the wrong deity or perhaps incorrectly interpreted an omen or oracular reply, as can be seen in the case of Maxentius’ preparations prior to his defeat by Constantine.66 Of course, ‘correctness’ could only be determined after the actual outcome was already decided. Any disturbances of religious procedure were viewed as potentially courting divine displeasure. According to Lactantius, Diocletian was enraged at the disruption of a sacred ritual by certain ‘profane persons’ (profani homines) identified in the narrative as Christians.67 Lactantius also described Diocletian’s ‘anxiety’ (timore) in relation to this or a similar but separate incident: if his view of the emperor’s state of mind is accurate, then it indicates an emperor’s dread of any divinely executed consequences up to and including an untimely end to his reign.68 Diocletian thus took what he deemed corrective action by demanding that those in the palace and the army should sacrifice. But whereas Diocletian acted on the assumption that the ritual’s failure risked the gods’ wrath, Constantine later determined that the attempt itself and the actions taken by his predecessor incurred divinely wrought disaster. After becoming sole ruler in 324, he communicated his religious policy to citizens in these newly won territories.69 In that letter, he used this incident of Diocletian’s failed sacrifice as an example of the disastrous error in placating false gods while acting with hostility towards worshippers of the true God.70 Unlike Diocletian who promoted the cult of Jupiter, Constantine may not have clearly identified the God of Christianity as his own divine patron until sometime between June 313 and late summer 314. At the very least, he had already determined Christianity’s compatibility with the worship of the summus deus, and a process of even closer identification can be traced.71 About 310, he adopted Sol Invictus (‘the unconquerable sun’), who could be understood as a universal deity apart from the gods of Diocletian’s imperial system, and identified to some extent with Apollo.72 Christian and sun-worshipping pagan alike could view the so-called ‘heavenly sign’ (caeleste signum) Constantine ordered re-produced on his soldiers’ shields in opposition to Maxentius’ forces in 312, and so he showed his willingness to accommodate rather than exclude Christianity as a form of acceptable religion.73 During winter 312–313 prior to the agreement with Licinius to restore conjointly owned Christian property, Constantine took a step further than any predecessors who also declared tolerance towards Christians by bestowing benefits on the churches in areas under his control. He wrote a letter to the bishop of Carthage, Caecilian, to notify him that he could expect a sizable grant of money intended for distribution among specific Christian ministers according to a list sent by the bishop of Cordoba, Ossius.74 Soon afterwards in February 313, Constantine sent a letter to the proconsul of Africa, Anulinus, which ordered the release of Christian clergy from civic duties.75 The emperor used no language in either letter that declared his own adherence to Christianity or named the summus deus in terms any more specific than what is found in the ‘edict

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of Milan’. If Constantine were willing at this point to be clear about defining himself as a Christian he could have done so in writing to Caecilian. However, the emperor went no further than this grant of money, defending the Christians under Caecilian’s care from some otherwise undesignated ‘low and twisted form of corruption’ (φαύλῃ τινί ὑπονοθεύσει βούλεσθαι διαστρέφειν), and referring twice to Christianity as ‘the most holy catholic religion’ (τῆς ἐνθέσμου καὶ ἁγιωτάτης καθολικῆς θρῃσκείας) or ‘most holy and catholic church’ (ἁγιωτάτης καὶ καθολικῆς ἐκκλησίας).76 Constantine’s concluding line in this letter refers only to the ‘great God’ (μεγάλου θεοῦ).77 However, the emperor soon began identifying with Christianity in his public pronouncements. In his letter dated June 313 to the bishop of Rome, Miltiades, and an otherwise unknown individual named Mark, the emperor used similar language concerning divinity as before.78 Nonetheless, a new element was introduced when Constantine professed that his great regard (τοσαύτην … αἰδῶ) for the church had not escaped the notice of his Christian addressees.79 Such esteem is a far cry from a confession of faith, but in the evidence we have the emperor had not earlier admitted openly to this much regarding Christianity. Then, in a letter written to Caecilianist bishops following the Council of Arles and dated to late summer 314, Constantine referred to these bishops as his ‘most beloved brothers’ (fratres carissimi).80 The same letter contains Constantine’s earliest documented self-description as God’s ‘servant’ (famulum suum).81 Notably, the emperor chose forms of the less servile term famulus rather than servus (‘slave’). The significance of such word choice will be discussed later in this chapter concerning his more frequent use of ‘servant’ language after 324. As a Christian, a ‘brother’ and a fellow ‘servant’, Constantine equated himself with the bishops on every level except that he remained emperor and they imperial subjects.82 But just prior to Constantine’s affirmation of so great a reverence for the church in his letter to Miltiades and Mark, he had already learned of an internal rupture among Christians in North Africa from Anulinus.83 Just as Diocletian before him, Constantine also had a keen sense for the dangers of divine wrath that was awakened by receiving word that charges had been brought against Caecilian—the very bishop to whom the emperor had just entrusted a large sum of money.84 This was the perceived danger in the concrete dilemma that Constantine now faced: which church in North Africa, governed by which bishop of Carthage, deserved the emperor’s generosity? Which of the competing ecclesiastical communities in North Africa could secure lasting divine favour by worshipping God with due reverence as a united body? Constantine assumed that the unity of a religious body such as constituted by the various Christian communities scattered throughout the empire ought to reflect the one-ness of God. This assumption is implied in the emperor’s letter to Miltiades and Mark while it is stated explicitly in the letter to the bishop of Syracuse (spring 314).85 Furthermore, since Constantine declared that God had entrusted him with control of North Africa after October 312, he also regarded the large numbers of Christians splitting up in this region as an ‘exceedingly heavy’ (βαρὺ σφόδρά) or very serious matter.86 In other words, the emperor warned that

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 73 what God gave could also be taken away with disastrous consequences because of divisions among Christians. It seems unlikely, given Christianity’s minor role as a political factor in the civil wars that broke up Diocletian’s imperial system, that the contending emperors (including Constantine) were so ignorant of this religious movement as to be unaware of at least some diversity within it. Therefore, what alarmed Constantine by 314 was not the fact that differences existed between various groups of Christians, but the depth of resulting division in North Africa and the inability or unwillingness of those involved to resolve such conflict. For the emperor, continuous dissension within Christian ranks risked divine retribution in three ways. First, religious unity and public order were inextricably linked; Roman authorities had intermittently tolerated or persecuted Christians partly on this premise.87 Second, the order and discipline of worship were disturbed when the ‘masses [were] to be found continuing on carelessly disagreeing and the bishops at variance [with each other]’ (ὄχλον ἐπὶ τὸ φαυλότερον ἐπιμένοντα εὑρίσκεσθαι ὡς ἂν εἰ διχοστατοῦντα καὶ μεταξὺ ἐπισκόπους διαφοράς ἔχειν).88 Third, the web of mutual accusations between disputing parties kept the emperor from fulfilling his obligation to express gratitude to his divine patron who was specified by this point as the God of Christianity.89 Thus, Constantine communicated his duty to restore peace among the Christians in North Africa in the letter to the bishop of Rome in 313. This sense of necessity combined with his view of sustained conflict after the Council of Arles as ‘obstinacy’, creating an additional dilemma regarding how the split could be resolved. If he responded by compelling an end to the dispute by using force, then he would repeat the demonstrably failed policy of his predecessors who attacked Christians.90 As an emperor who had publicly indicated that the Christians worshipped the God who upheld the empire under his reign, Constantine could not violently compel them to obey without exposing himself to divine vengeance. But he could not allow discord to continue unchecked without running the same risk. Or, to put it another way, Constantine needed the schism to end because he believed continued disunity might provoke a divine reaction against him. Yet the way in which the emperor worked to restore peace to the churches also mattered for the same reason. Restoring divine favour: Rome, Arles, and repression Constantine initially took a detached approach towards resolving the schism in North Africa. As we have seen, he had received by June 313 the dossier of charges against Caecilian included with the proconsul Anulinus’ official letter.91 But the emperor did not directly involve himself beyond ordering Caecilian, along with an equal number of accusers and supporters, to appear before a panel of bishops in Rome presided over by the city’s bishop, Miltiades.92 This had the character of a judicial hearing, with episcopal rather than magisterial overseers; it conformed to Aurelian’s example of delegating a dispute involving Christians to the bishop of Rome, and perhaps contributed inspiration to Constantine’s own subsequent decision to grant judicial authority to the bishops.93 But the

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emperor did not see fit to attend the hearing, and was not even in Rome at the time.94 Instead, he acted on the expectation that any such internal disputes as he understood them should be resolved by the bishops themselves. He also assumed a single episcopal gathering ought to produce a decision that would restore peace.95 However, when Caecilian’s opponents appealed the decision rendered by at Rome, Constantine took a further step increasing the level of his involvement.96 He agreed, in response to their complaints, to broaden representation of both sides at a council that he announced would be held at Arles in August 314.97 Whereas in Rome the proceedings as well as the verdict had been left entirely to the bishops, Constantine may have attended the Council of Arles as a lay observer although this suggestion by Timothy Barnes and Mark Edwards is based on questionable grounds. Barnes appeals to a brief passage in Eusebius’ Life of Constantine (1.44) in positing the emperor’s attendance at this council.98 Edwards inserts a reference to Constantine at the end of his translation of the same council’s letter to Bishop Silvester, Miltiades’ successor at Rome, which formed part of the anti-Donatist documents collected by Optatus of Milevis (App. 4). Edwards draws the same inference here as Barnes on the basis of the same passage in Eusebius’ Life.99 Both, however, read more into this extract from the Life than is actually there since it describes Constantine’s overall approach to ‘pay[ing] particular attention to the church of God’ rather than referring to the emperor’s actual appearance at the Council of Arles. But even if Constantine did not attend Arles, the unprecedented step of a church council summoned by an emperor (as opposed to a judicial hearing overseen by a panel of bishops) nevertheless represented a greater degree of imperial involvement. Even supposing Constantine was present, he took no active role in the council as he would at Nicaea a decade or so later: at Arles, the emperor’s presence alone would have been intended to ensure that the synod proceeded in an orderly fashion and resulted in restored unity.100 As at the hearing in Rome, the Council of Arles went against Caecilian’s opponents, though they petitioned Constantine a third time. In his letter dated to August or September 314, the emperor wrote Caecilianist representatives expressing consternation at the losing party’s refusal to accept the council’s ‘upright judging’ (recta diiudicatio) and compared the judgement of bishops to that of God himself in terms of the respect he declared was owed by Christians to such episcopal decisions.101 The emperor, also in this letter, equated those who persisted in schism with persecutors of Christians.102 He professed amazement that Christ’s providential care included even ‘those who have presently separated from truth and, in a certain manner, introducing weapons against it, have united themselves with the nations’ (qui iam desciscentes a veritate quodammodo adversus ipsam arma inducentes gentibus se copulaverunt).103 By twice disregarding the bishops’ judgement in council, Caecilian’s accusers ostensibly showed their disdain for God’s judgement; the emperor went so far as to say here that they ‘savagely burst forth upon God himself’ (qui in ipso deo inmanes prosilierunt).104 Such aggressive language indicated Constantine’s belief that schism deserved the same divine punishment that had fallen on the persecutors of God’s worshippers.

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 75 But did Constantine, as an agent of God, administer divine justice by using force against the Donatists between approximately 317 and 321? The answer is not as clear as it may seem. What can be known is that violence on both sides did occur, and that the nature of Constantine’s approach to resolving the schism had changed around late 315 or early 316. Whereas the emperor had left the matter to be determined first by those directly involved and later by summoning a church council, he now began to speak and act in a judicial and penal manner. In his letter to Celsus, Constantine ordered the vicarius not to act against the Donatists; rather, the emperor promised to demonstrate true God-pleasing worship by his own example.105 Constantine also threatened to ‘destroy and shatter’ (perdam atque discutiam) those who did not worship God with proper devotion and incited others to the same practice (the letter’s context indicates that the emperor meant the Donatists).106 But Constantine did not follow through on this threat of violence, though he may have ordered the confiscation of Donatist-held property in November 316.107 If so, then Constantine risked casting himself as a persecutor of Christians in contrast with Licinius, whom he had recently attacked near Cibalae on 8 October 316.108 Barely two weeks after this brief civil war ended with terms favourable to Constantine, he may have felt free to act more aggressively against the Donatists. But it remains unclear whether or not Constantine was directly responsible for ordering the slaughter of a Donatist congregation in their own church.109 Scholars are somewhat divided regarding the emperor’s role in such violence. Maureen Tilley and Paul Stephenson attribute responsibility to Constantine.110 The same is implied by W.H.C. Frend and David Potter.111 Barnes describes this as a mob action, repeating the Donatist charge that it was incited by Caecilian. However, he mentions no orders by Constantine connected with either this mob action or the forcible entry into the church on the part of soldiers commanded by the comes (‘companion’, a courtier) Ursacius and the dux (military commander) Leontius. Barnes notes only a ‘complete reversal of imperial policy’ in 321 despite continued Donatist resistance, thus implying that Constantine indeed earlier ordered or approved the persecution of some Christians in North Africa.112 But David Alexander suggests that such interpretations as those above rely on a selective reading of Constantine’s letter (App. 7) to Celsus, vicarius of Africa, that gives undue weight to Constantine’s threat to ‘destroy and shatter’ those who failed to worship God properly in unity with one another.113 In my view, Alexander rightly emphasises the rather temporising tone of the emperor’s letter to Celsus as a whole and rejects the notion that Constantine intended or ordered the violent repression of the Donatists.114 The emperor wrote in this letter that the Donatists had something ‘abominable in mind’ (nefarias res cogitasse) when they fled his court without permission. Rather than punish them upon their arrival, Celsus was ordered to ‘disregard them and meanwhile learn to repress their hostile feelings toward the same persons’ (ut interim quidem eosdem omittas et dissimulandum super ipsos esse cognoscas).115 While it is true that Constantine had sided with Caecilian prior to the assault against the Donatist congregation, the emperor nevertheless promised a further investigation

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of the whole matter: conscious that this was not the first time he had made such a pledge, he vowed to ‘cause to come into the light’ (in lucem facturus venire) any hidden information.116 Twice, the emperor stated his intention to demonstrate to both sides just how God was to be properly worshipped.117 Constantine’s primary concern remained the restoration of God’s favour by a return to ecclesiastical unity, and it is in this light (and in the context of the whole letter) that his less numerous but more fiery comments should be understood. Therefore, it is doubtful Constantine ordered the persecution of any Christians in North Africa. This is not to deny either that anti-Donatist violence occurred in an area under his control, or that soldiers led by two imperial officials participated in the massacre of a Donatist congregation. It may be reasonable to conclude that some of Constantine’s rhetoric indirectly resulted in such violence, though he did not necessarily intend or command the use of force. However, Barnes rightly connects Constantine’s actions to cease anti-Donatist violence (which need not be interpreted as a ‘reversal’ of earlier imperial action sanctioning the use of force) with preparations for resuming war with Licinius. Certainly, Constantine faced a problem of credibility if he continued to promote his special favour by the God of Christianity, but failed to curb violence against some Christians as he readied for a new military campaign. To summarise the discussion so far, we can draw the following conclusion about a developing doctrine of divine favour and agency through Constantine’s engagements with the Donatist schism: the emperor acted as the agent of Christianity’s God through whom he believed divine blessing and aid would be assured if he could help unify divided Christians. This shows that even in his unusual decision to identify himself with Christianity, Constantine remained a typical Roman emperor within a long tradition of seeking favour from a divine patron(s) and expressing gratitude for the benefits received. He believed the summus deus favoured his cause against Maxentius on the basis of his victory at the Milvian Bridge in 312, and soon openly associated this deity with Christianity. For Constantine, a secure and prosperous reign—indicated by continuing success achieved through his actions in battle and the public welfare in his government of the empire—depended on his ability to ensure propriety in religion. Retaining divine favour was his principal consideration as he encountered a deep rupture in fellowship among North African Christians. The emperor’s conviction that God entrusted him with imperial power required him to work towards restoring proper worship where it had been violated. Constantine’s pattern of managing divine favour in this way developed initially between 313 and 321 as he worked with various bishops to resolve the Donatist schism. Having identified his divine patron with the God of Christianity, the emperor remained concerned with preserving access to the favour of this deity on his rule. He believed that intractable breaches in Christian unity risked stirring up divine wrath, and sought to obtain renewed unanimity in ways that he deemed would ensure continuity in heavenly support for the empire under his reign. He assumed the task of leading Christians to resolve internal conflicts as their divinely assisted benefactor or God’s ‘servant’. This was a title that he began

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 77 using to express his role of divine agent, although only once and indirectly as of 315. Between June 313 and the end of August 314, Constantine provided space and opportunity for disputing Christians to be heard, for the divisive issues to be investigated, and for a decision to be reached by the bishops whose verdicts he proclaimed reflected the judgement of God himself. But when these rulings went against the Donatists—first at the hearing in Rome and subsequently at the Council of Arles—Constantine escalated the severity of his language as well as the level of his involvement between 315 and 316 by ordering Donatist property confiscated. Yet his occasionally threatening language was tempered by explicit orders not to violently repress the schism (given as early as 315 and repeated with greater emphasis in 321).118 When rising tensions broke into riots, imperial officials in North Africa responded with force. These authorities may have been incited by Constantine’s fierce rhetoric in reacting to such unrest, despite the emperor’s clear commands to avoid violence. We do not have further evidence in the words of Constantine for his dealings with the schism in North Africa until early 330 when he re-stated his policy of ‘patience’ (patientiam) in response to what he described as Donatist obstinacy.119 By that time, as will be described in the next section of this chapter, Constantine’s self-identification as the ‘servant of God’ had become more prominent in his rhetoric as he engaged with theological conflict in the East.

Constantine and the ‘Arian controversy’ until the Council of Nicaea Seeking divine favour: Constantine’s letters to the East (324) A pattern similar to what is outlined above developed after Constantine’s final victory over Licinius in 324. Again, Constantine announced imperial policies affecting religion in his newly won eastern territories: these decrees were intended to keep the emperor and his empire in good relations with the same divine patron he believed had aided him against his enemy. Again, Constantine shortly afterwards learned of conflict among the Christians in the eastern provinces and declared his dread of losing divine favour as the result of such discord. Again, he reacted according to his expressed obligation to unite the churches for the sake of recovering divine support. Following Licinius’ abdication on 19 September 324, Constantine began working to re-unify eastern and western provinces under his sole rule.120 Securing divine sanction for his rule in the East remained his priority as it had been in the West, as each province received a pair of letters bearing the imperial signature: according to Eusebius, one was intended for the churches, while the other was addressed to non-Christian provincials.121 The bishop of Caesarea wrote that he intended to include only the latter, but the version of the Life as we have it actually contains three imperial documents describing Constantine’s general religious policy in the East.122 The emperor’s letter to the provincials of Palestine appears first and concerned directives favouring Christians that would have also affected others. Eusebius next attached an imperial letter sent to eastern bishops, which

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ordered the construction of new church buildings as well as the restoration or enlargement of existing structures.123 Finally, a letter addressed ‘to the provincials of the East’ outlined Constantine’s policies towards non-Christians in light of his preference for Christianity.124 Each one of these letters declared the emperor’s continued loyalty to the God of Christianity, and shows that maintaining divine favour remained at the front of his political thinking in 324 as he consolidated power over the whole empire.125 Constantine proclaimed in these documents that God’s power should by this time have been as clear to everyone as to himself because of his unbroken chain of victories.126 Since the emperor deemed this to be the case, he determined that only the religion of Christianity constituted the worship that guaranteed God’s continuing favour.127 Furthermore, the evidence we have shows that Constantine again referred to himself as the ‘servant of God’ (as he had in 315), and would often do so from the year 324 onward.128 Within the context of this designation’s two appearances in the letter to the provincials of Palestine, Constantine described himself as the agent through whom past conditions were removed that had been restrictive or harmful to Christians. Yet Constantine was not aiming for a ‘triumph of Christianity’ at the expense of peace within the empire. The emperor proclaimed himself the means of divine ‘healing’ for all of his subjects, despite linking traditional religion with injustice, civil war, and widespread suffering.129 He wrote: ‘Now I call on you, the greatest God. May you be gentle and well-disposed to your eastern peoples, and to all your provincials who have been crushed for a long time, and stretch forth healing through me your servant’.130 According to Constantine, his predecessors who attacked or failed to protect the Christians as worshippers of the true and supreme God acted wickedly out of ‘perverted madness’ (διεστραμμένης ἀπονοίας).131 They may have thought their unrelenting promotion of brutality, arising out of their twisting of true reason, worked to their benefit, but all that resulted was civil war ending in their deaths.132 The earth shed tears, creation was stained with innocent blood, the very light of day was dimmed, and Romans sought refuge among barbarians—imagery that emphasised the sheer wrongness of prior persecutions.133 By contrast, Constantine presented himself as the agent of divine healing as the ‘servant of God’ through his actions on the battlefield and the policies geared towards religious unity that he now announced through this letter.134 The emperor wished to further underscore the difference between his predecessors who sought their own benefit through their measures and his own true piety: For indeed on this account [victory in war], I genuinely love your name and fear your power which you have shown forth by many proofs and effected the steadiness of my faith. Therefore, I press hard and have put my own shoulders to wholly renewing your most holy house, which those profane and violent ones have defiled with wicked destruction.135 Thus, the emperor presented his sacred duty to the eastern provincials as establishing religious unity—an empire where Christian worship was preferable though other forms of piety would not be maltreated.

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 79 This was reflected in the general policies described in the remaining part of the letter. Those who continued to be ‘led astray’ (πλανώμενοι) were also to receive ‘similar’ (ὁμοὶαν) benefits as Christians in terms of peace and security.136 Here, ‘pagan’ religion was the object of official toleration by a single emperor identifying as a Christian; whereas before, under the former agreement with Licinius, it was Christianity that received indulgence. In each of these cases, Constantine’s willingness to bestow or withhold toleration was determined by what he believed would preserve God’s favour. However, the emperor encountered an even more fragmented situation among eastern Christians than the continuing schism in North Africa. Endangering divine favour: the ‘Arian controversy’ Ecclesiastical matters neither entered nor continued in a thriving state upon Constantine’s victory over Licinius in the East—contrary to both the triumphant emperor’s own hopeful expectations and later Christian historiography.137 Serious theological conflict in Alexandria had already erupted in 318, according to traditional dating, when Arius and Alexander came into open dispute.138 Over the next six years, partisans on both sides cast their nets ever wider throughout the empire in search of support for their respective viewpoints.139 Controversy intensified to the point that Licinius apparently saw fit to ban all gatherings of bishops between 321 and 323.140 This action may have restrained ecclesiastical conflicts in the East temporarily, but it also allowed Constantine to portray his rival among the emperors who had persecuted Christians—thus Licinius forfeited divine sanction for his rule.141 Licinius’ defeat in 324 enabled these eastern bishops to renew their assemblies, and division among Christians in these regions again burst into the open.142 Only around this time, while Constantine was formulating policy for his new eastern subjects, did he claim to have first learned of the specific conflict involving Alexander and Arius.143 If so, the news would have come to the victorious emperor’s attention shortly after his arrival in Nicomedia on 19 September 324, where the city’s bishop was one of Arius’ more powerful advocates as well as a former supporter of Licinius.144 Declaring in his letter to Alexander and Arius that he had hoped to enlist eastern clergy in resolving the Donatist schism in the West, Constantine wrote that the news now reaching his ears was that Christians were even more divided in the East.145 Quarrels about the divinity of Jesus the Son in relation to God the Father coincided with the Meletian schism, which was similar in nature to the Donatist conflict and centred in Egypt. In addition to these problems, long-standing variance between Christian communities scattered throughout the empire over the proper timing of celebrating Easter led Constantine to seek the establishment of a uniform method.146 It is difficult to tell which of these ruptures in Christian fellowship was of greater importance to the emperor. The earliest example available to us of Constantine addressing himself to any of these issues is the letter to Alexander and Arius. But he wrote letters shortly after the Council of Nicaea focusing separately on the decisions concerning Easter’s celebration and Arius’ theological views.147 During

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the last years of Constantine’s reign following this council, numerous imperial letters address disputes involving a complicated blend of enduring theological disagreement, ecclesiastical politics, and Roman law—most of which touched on enduring controversy related to (but no longer necessarily centred on) Arius’ opinions as well as the Meletian schism.148 What is clear from the whole surviving body of Constantinian correspondence is that the emperor objected to any disruption in Christian communion, regardless of the issues involved and whether he viewed it as a quarrel over beliefs or organisational structure and practice. For Constantine, any such internecine striving among worshippers of the God he favoured had to be carefully addressed, or he might also lose divine support—as he understood had happened to each of the former emperors within his own lifetime. Constantine’s correspondence repeatedly reveals how seriously he appeared to take such a threat. As an emperor who continued to promote Christianity, he could not allow Christians to remain antagonistic towards one another. But for the same reason, he could not force them into agreement and risk appearing as yet another persecutor. He had spoken threateningly in letters addressing the Donatist schism when the two factions failed to resolve their differences. He may have ordered the confiscation of Donatist property and possibly ordered the violent repression of their party, and yet the schism was no closer to resolution. A new kind of approach was needed as Constantine met with ecclesiastical factionalism along theological lines in the East. The emperor wrote his letter to Alexander and Arius as the two individuals most directly involved in the widespread discord.149 Despite the address in the letter’s text naming Alexander and Arius, there is doubt as to its actual intended recipients as well as the role of Ossius of Cordoba in delivering it. Eusebius of Caesarea, who embedded a copy of this letter in the second book of his Life of Constantine, did not name Ossius but referred only to a godly individual at court who was known and trusted by the emperor with the task of mediating the dispute.150 Socrates, writing about a century later, identified this apparently reliable person as Ossius.151 Paul Parvis draws on arguments by B.H. Warmington and Stuart Hall to suggest that this letter was addressed to a synod that met at Antioch in 325 rather than being intended for Alexander and Arius individually.152 Parvis argues that an official other than Ossius presented the letter, and that the central issue was a disputed episcopal election. While a fully developed argument against these suggestions by Parvis, Warmington, and Hall lies beyond the scope and purpose of this chapter, the following three points are briefly offered here in response. First, the letter could conceivably have been intended for more eyes than Alexander and Arius as individuals: I suggest that these named persons in addition to their respective supporters were the expected recipients. Second, the supposition that the issue described in this letter actually centred on episcopal succession rather than theology can be disregarded. The letter’s text identifies the main problem as theological in nature.153 Granted, this represents Constantine’s view of the conflict between Arius and Alexander; however, Arius himself had pinpointed Alexander’s treatment of their theological differences as his primary complaint when writing to Eusebius of Nicomedia at an earlier stage of

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 81 the controversy.154 Third, it remains reasonable to accept Socrates’ designation of the person entrusted with the emperor’s letter as Ossius, since this bishop was named earlier and functioned in a similar capacity as imperial representative to the churches in Constantine’s letter to Caecilian concerning the grant of money.155 But this does not necessarily mean Ossius embarked on his mission alone, and it is reasonable to accept the participation of someone like the notary Marianus, as Parvis expanded on this suggestion by Warmington.156 This letter to Alexander and Arius is usually invoked in discussions of the emperor’s interest in ecclesiastical unity, for reasons that are obvious from the text itself.157 It is also significant for revealing an explicit link in the emperor’s rhetoric between ecclesiastical unity and divine favour: I make God himself, the Saviour of the universe who has supported my action, a witness, as was fitting for me, that my twofold motive has brought to pass these things that I am accomplishing. For indeed, it was first to have united into one condition all of the people’s supposition about God. Second, it was my urgent desire that I might revive and bring into harmony the body of the whole empire, which, as it were, was suffering with many painful wounds.158 The emperor’s divine patron, in other words, not only granted him the ability to unite the empire under his solitary rule but also sanctioned his aims in regulating unity of belief among God’s worshippers. He proceeded to explain his view that uniting under consistent notions of divinity involved rational persuasion, while achieving the unity of the whole empire had required military force.159 Constantine’s words also assured the disputing parties in Alexandria that the emperor preferred a peaceful, reasonable resolution to their quarrel rather than to intervene with armed violence. According to the emperor, the same God who blessed his victories could also be expected to aid imperial efforts to prevail upon ‘the servants of God’ (meaning Christians in this instance) to embrace a common religion to the benefit of everyone: I knew that if I might establish a concord common to all the servants of God in dependence on my prayers, the business of public affairs [would] enjoy the change that is in agreement with the pious judgment of all.160 Here, again, was a linking of Christian unity with the benefits that God might grant all Roman subjects with the clear suggestion that such good fortune relied on reconciliation within the church at Alexandria. The emperor acknowledged that schism in Africa continued, and announced his earlier intent of recruiting eastern clergy to help resolve it. Perhaps this was Constantine’s plan as he consolidated power in the East, since bishops in the western provinces of Italy and Gaul had not managed to resolve the problems rupturing the churches in North Africa. However, the image of a united front of eastern bishops assisting those in the West towards the same end also served as an effective contrast with the reality to which Constantine addressed himself.

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He claimed this design was interrupted upon his arrival in the East by the suffering of a ‘grave wound’ (τραῦμα καίριον), due to the report received that the situation among Christians in these regions was even more serious than the state of affairs he had left behind in the West.161 There was probably more to this hyperbolic ‘grave wound’ than an exaggerated sense of disappointment, as it also described Constantine’s sense of danger in fear of divine vengeance. For instance, the wounding or death of an emperor could be taken as a divine sign with its positive or negative connotations dependent on one’s interpretation of the event. Thus, Gregory of Nazianzus wrote later in the fourth century of Julian’s mortal wounding and death in battle against the Persians in 363. For Gregory, a Christian, Julian’s death signalled God’s favour after just under two years of rule by this opponent of Christianity.162 From a pagan perspective, Libanius wondered whether a god had struck Julian down or if physical weakness were to blame for the emperor’s succumbing to his wound.163 Ammianus Marcellinus (who also suggested that an inferior physical constitution contributed to Julian’s demise) attributed Julian’s death to Fate and an oracle that carried a double-meaning regarding the place of his death, which resulted from divine anger.164 Constantine already believed that disunity among the Christians of North Africa risked provoking God’s wrath. Combining this with the news of multiple divisions affecting the eastern provinces, it is not difficult to believe that Constantine might have indeed felt somehow threatened and that this expression of suffering and danger was not merely a figurative piece of public speech. But he did not dwell long on such negative notions in this letter, proceeding to describe his attempts to investigate the causes of this disturbance originating among Christians in Alexandria.165 The emperor claimed here that the source of this disagreement was exposed as ‘worthless and in no wise worthy of so much eager rivalry’ (εὐτελὴς καὶ οὐδαμῶς ἀξία τῆς τοσαύτης φιλονεικίας).166 He emphasised repeatedly his view of the theological points at issue as ‘trivial and exceedingly worthless’ (μικρᾶς καὶ λίαν εὐτελοῦς) throughout the rest of this letter.167 Some scholars point to such terminology as evidence that Constantine failed to grasp the debate’s real theological significance or that he valued Christianity’s unity over its teaching.168 However, I believe Mark Edwards rightly describes Constantine as being more theologically in tune overall than it might seem from a couple of phrases in the letter to Alexander and Arius.169 Edwards is mainly concerned with Constantine’s theological grounds for labelling Arius a ‘Porphyrian’ after the Council of Nicaea, but a significant part of his discussion is based on the emperor’s Oration to the Saints—for which he does not assign a more specific date than c. 313–328. Even if the date most widely accepted for this speech (Easter 325) is acknowledged, it would still seem odd for Constantine to trivialise out of ignorance in late 324 the very matter of Father and Son that featured so conspicuously in the Oration only a few months later. It is also unfair to criticise Constantine for failing to comprehend more fully a theological debate that was still developing and which taxed the greatest Christian minds during and after his lifetime. Rather than displaying a lack of familiarity or interest, the same speech as a whole reveals the truth of Eusebius of Caesarea’s claim that the emperor

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 83 engaged with questions of belief and enjoyed opportunities to declaim to his court on the meaning of various biblical passages.170 The emperor’s statements to Alexander and Arius that seem to belittle the source of their contention are better understood as drawing their attention away from theological differences in order to reach a common understanding. Unity was unquestionably important to the emperor, as acknowledged in the discussion above regarding the Donatist schism. This risks stating the obvious: after all, it is inconceivable that any Roman emperor would have long tolerated or survived the spread of civil and religious disturbances without interference. Thus, it may seem so apparent why Constantine valued unity that there might be little point in any further analysis. Towards the end of this letter to Alexander and Arius, however, the priority of the emperor’s concern to preserve the favour of God is implicit. Constantine’s hope for a return to ‘calm nights and days [that were] free from care’ (γαληνὰς μὲν ἡμέρας νύκτας δʹ ἀμερίμνους) did not relate to unity for its own sake, but rather to renewed divine support by means of restored ecclesiastical unity.171 The assurance of God’s continued blessing would enable Constantine to rule securely and rest peacefully: believing that discord risked divine anger, so he declared that restoring unity served to re-establish divine benevolence. But to argue for the priority of divine favour over unity should not be misunderstood as suggesting that Constantine’s motives were purely out of religious piety or that his political interests were not also served at the same time. Even so, there is no reason to assume the emperor did not genuinely believe in the actual necessity of divine favour or his ability (indeed, his responsibility) to channel it effectively through his actions as the ‘servant’, or agent, of God. Likewise, there is no need for cynical assertions that Constantine only used religion and its discourse for political purposes. While it is true that the emperor’s most explicit statements about unity did not invoke divine support in every individual case, I suggest that retaining God’s favour was so evidently a primary motivating factor that he saw no need to repeat himself each time. The continued goodwill of the right god(s) was deemed as essential in governing as in warfare: for Constantine, retaining the benevolence of Christianity’s God was a decisive and even primary factor. Restoring divine favour as the ‘servant of God’ An important part of any emperor’s task in order to maintain power was to assert successfully that the same divine favour believed to support Roman hegemony also operated through him, as demonstrated by the security and prosperity associated with victorious military campaigns and effective policies. Divine wrath was the assumed rationale that lay behind any misfortune or disaster deemed threatening to an emperor’s hold on power. Thus, he had to act in order to restore the divine goodwill by means of which the common good and his own secure position might be recovered. There was a sense of obligation, but also further legitimation of power: the emperor was regarded as at the centre of divine-human relations and therefore uniquely placed to manage either side. In this regard,

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Constantine acted within a long imperial tradition when he sought aid from the summus deus against his enemies, and later decreed policies explicitly intended to demonstrate gratitude for victory. His innovation was to identify this supreme divinity as the God worshipped by Christians. Thus, according to the same conventional outlook that now integrated some Christian viewpoints, Constantine was compelled but also empowered to intervene as God’s agent in addressing internal ecclesiastical conflicts. The emperor presented this as his chief duty when describing his role as the ‘servant of God’. As described above, our earliest evidence shows that he referred to himself this way for the first time in relation to the Donatist schism in a letter written after the Council of Arles in 314.172 By the following decade when Constantine had assumed sole authority in the East as well as the West, such ‘service’ to God had come to epitomise the emperor’s view of his role settling ecclesiastical affairs. Generally speaking, Constantine viewed his role in terms of setting right what he deemed wrong in the empire. He used servant language (forms of θεραπεία) to describe, explain, or justify his actions intended to restore the fortunes of Christians suffering repression in the East.173 He used similar terminology (θεραπεία and ὑπηρεσία) in contexts relating to his actions in progressively re-unifying the empire by military conquest.174 Most of the occurrences of this vocabulary appear in connection with Constantine speaking into ecclesiastical conflicts when he asserted his authority to intervene.175 In each instance, the actions he says that he took were determined on the basis of his personal identification with the Christians to whom he wrote: it is this concept of ‘service’ (i.e., serving God) which makes that bond possible, while it is the emperor’s divinely aided victories that reinforce his own greater authority. Of course, any analysis of the significance of how frequently ‘servant’ language appears in connection with ecclesiastical conflicts should bear in mind that most of the extant Constantinian correspondence is concerned with the same divisions. As Constantine must have known, such a self-designated title like ‘servant of God’ came with a biblical resonance that, for Christians, evoked comparison with Moses and the apostle Paul.176 As ancient Israel’s leader in political, military, and religious matters in the biblical narrative, Moses might have made an appropriate symbolic parallel for a Roman emperor: Eusebius drew explicit connections between Constantine and Moses.177 Yet certain similarities between the emperor and Paul are also tantalising. Both were formerly among the persecutors of Christians who later became devoted supporters (though Constantine, unlike Paul, claimed that he had not participated in active persecution), and their dramatic conversion stories are each associated with the sudden appearance of bright light.178 However, a comparison of language related to ‘service’ as used by Constantine with similar terminology applied to Moses in the Septuagint and by Paul himself in the New Testament attests to the emperor’s preference for associating with the ancient Hebrew leader (probably influencing Eusebius’ own descriptive correlation). Paul had opened his letters to the Romans and to a young protégé named Titus by describing himself as a ‘servant of God’, using the term δοῦλος, while Moses was referred to in the Septuagint according to forms of θεραπεία.179 Δοῦλος

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 85 could be translated more accurately as ‘slave’ and emphasised the apostle’s view of his servile status in relation to God. However, θεραπεία and associated language represent more active terminology for ‘service’, and its range of meanings encompasses a sense of usefulness with religious or medicinal overtones. In contrast with the more static meaning of δοῦλος, the emphasis in θεραπεία is on attending to what needs to be done. While an emperor would not think of abasing himself to slave status (even symbolically speaking), he would want to be seen as a useful instrument for ‘curing’ whatever ills he perceived were being suffered prior to or during his reign. It is, in fact, various forms of θεραπεία that almost exclusively characterise Constantine’s self-descriptions as the ‘servant of God’.180 Furthermore, neither servus in Latin nor its Greek equivalent δοῦλος ever appear in this emperor’s surviving correspondence. Eusebius of Caesarea wrote that Constantine, having re-unified the empire under his authority and learned of division among eastern Christians, expressed his task of restoring ecclesiastical unity in terms of another war in which he must prove victorious.181 According to Eusebius, the emperor mobilised a ‘legion of God’ (φάλαγγα θεοῦ, lit. ‘battle-array’ or ‘phalanx’) by forming a broadly representative council of bishops on a scale hitherto unknown for the purpose of ‘march[ing] against’ (ἐπιστρατεύω) the invisible enemy who disturbed the peace of the church.182 As in any actual military operation, careful tactical planning was required in preparation for this council. First, Constantine changed its location from Ancyra to Nicaea.183 His stated justifications for this alteration in venue need not be ignored entirely, but most scholars believe that he had other motives aside from Nicaea’s alleged better climate.184 It is not clear whether Constantine or some eastern bishops took the initiative in summoning this council that met ultimately in Nicaea, but the emperor apparently assumed the main responsibility for its planning at this point. In any case, the likelihood of some object on the emperor’s part other than fairer weather is unaffected regardless of who originally announced this council. For example, if we suppose that Barnes is correct that it was first convened by a synod of bishops in Alexandria, then Constantine’s change of venue ensured a less partisan result by removing the council from under the authority of Marcellus—the bishop of Ancyra at this time, and a vocal opponent of Arius. But even if we grant assertions by those such as Richard Hanson that Constantine called the council to meet at first in Ancyra, the change to Nicaea (as Barnes reasonably speculated) would have enabled the emperor to stay close to Nicomedia at a time of political uncertainty and tension around the city due to Licinius’ defeat.185 Having changed the council’s location, our limited evidence next shows Constantine making a highly ceremonial entrance into the palace hall where the main deliberations were to take place.186 After all the ecclesiastical participants had entered the hall and taken their seats, Eusebius described the silence that followed as they waited for the emperor’s arrival. An imperial entourage of highly ranked courtiers entered one by one, and Eusebius added the detail that they were not armed soldiers to emphasise Constantine’s refusal to use or even threaten coercive force. Finally, everyone stood as the emperor himself entered the hall

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dressed brilliantly in resplendent imperial purple and gold ‘like some heavenly angel of God’ (οἷα θεοῦ τις οὐριάνος ἄγγελος).187 Eusebius intended the scene to illustrate his earlier statement, which followed a summary of the disagreements to be addressed by the council, that ‘it was for the almighty God alone to take up [responsibility] to treat even this, and alone of those on earth Constantine appeared to render him good service’.188 The details of this brief vignette depict the emperor in close proximity with the divine in keeping with changes to official court liturgy introduced by Diocletian.189 But as the focus of such magnificent spectacle, Constantine affected several outward signs of humility (which are almost lost in Eusebius’ emphasis on the emperor’s majestic qualities). His eyes were turned to the ground, a blush appeared on his face in discomfiture at the pomp and pageantry, and he waited to be seated until the assembled bishops had first sat down.190 The magnificence of the ceremony and the emperor’s appearance combined with his displays of humility to communicate his role in and expectations for the council’s proceedings to all those gathered. The grandeur and opulence of his stage-managed entrance certainly impressed Eusebius with the semi-divine aura surrounding the emperor, as it was also intended to stir them all. At the same time, the gestures with which Constantine exhibited modesty were intended to assure them. This was an emperor who claimed direct access to God and whose presence was saturated with derived divinity, but who made no self-identification as a god. He was prominently present at the council as God’s instrument to ensure that ecclesiastical leadership would work smoothly to restore unity, but he would not interfere in their deliberations with coercion or force. One bishop (identified as Eustathius of Antioch by fifth-century church historian Theodoret of Cyrrhus) then stood to deliver a speech of thanks to God for the emperor, at which point Constantine delivered a speech of his own that Eusebius paraphrased.191 Military metaphors made a dominant appearance in this speech, and though Eusebius did not record the emperor’s exact words it is not impossible that Constantine might have used such symbolism. In this speech, the emperor held divisions in the church to be as ‘dangerous as any war or terrible battle’ (πολέμου καὶ μάκης [δεινῆς] καὶ χαλεπωτέρα), and invoked the same divine favour that had assisted him in military conflict for the granting of ‘healing’ from ecclesiastical conflicts through his own instrumentality: Therefore, when I had prayed and seized victories through the sanction and cooperation of the Almighty, I considered nothing was left but to indeed recognise divine favour, and to rejoice also with those who were set free by him through us. But when past all hope I learnt of your disagreement, I did not in the next moment lay the tidings aside, but, I immediately summoned everyone, praying that this also may be of remedy through my service.192 Having therefore assembled such a ‘legion of God’ at Nicaea, Constantine then declared that unity was the desired result of their forthcoming deliberations as this would please God and be gratifying to himself.193 In other words, while unity was

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 87 foremost on the emperor’s agenda for the council, it served the primary purpose of restoring divine favour.

Conclusion The perception of obtaining and preserving divine favour was long believed crucial to a successful imperial reign. Constantine believed, in accordance with a version of this tradition modified to integrate his new religious identification, that the God whom Christians worshipped was the ‘supreme God’ whose power worked on his behalf in battle against his rivals. Convinced that he had received God’s help in battle, Constantine’s primary concern as the ‘servant of God’ was the successful management of divine support upon which he prominently declared his life, power, and the public welfare depended. While undoubtedly of great importance to the emperor, his work to achieve ecclesiastical unity served the end of securing divine favour rather than being itself his chief objective. For Constantine, unity was both a sign and condition of God’s continued support. The emperor believed that continuing divine favour rested on proper worship, which he believed required general harmony among Christians and the performance of Christian rites according to standard ecclesiastical order as determined by a majority of bishops assembled in a council. He was greatly concerned that God might withdraw his support because of present confusion and disrupted fellowship among Christians. Thus, as emperor, Constantine assumed personal responsibility to ensure that ecclesiastical unity was restored. Rather than further risk divine vengeance by becoming another tyrant or persecutor, Constantine demonstrated political skill in working with the bishops to create an environment in which disputing Christian factions could work towards their own agreement that would receive imperial support. However, ecclesiastical leaders did not entirely cooperate with or achieve Constantine’s hopes for a united Christian Church within the Roman Empire. Far from realising unanimity, Nicaea’s definition of the consubstantial relation of the Father and the Son raised as many questions as it managed to answer. Although Constantine continued to hold the bishops in high regard and wished to work with them in bringing about the desired unity among Christians, not every bishop was as willing to work with the emperor.194 Because orthodox theology was of great importance to the bishops, divine favour and agency alone proved insufficient as the only doctrine of power guiding this emperor in relation to his aims that ecclesiastical unity be restored.

Notes 1 The main accounts of the war between Constantine and Maxentius are found in Lactant., De mort. pers. 44.1–12; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 9.9.1–11; Euseb., Vit. Const. 1.25.2–38.5. See also Orig. Const. 2.12; Eutr. 10.4; Aur. Vict., Caes. 40; Zos. 2.14–17. For a detailed narrative, see Timothy Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981), 28–43; cf. Timothy Barnes, Constantine: Dynasty, Religion, and Power in the Later Roman Empire (Malden: Blackwell, 2014), 60–89.

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2 Lactant., De mort pers. 24.1–19; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 8.13.12–14; Euseb., Vit. Const. 1.19–25.1; Orig. 2.4; Eutr. 10.1; Zos. 2.8–9. 3 Lactant., De mort. pers. 43.1–4; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 9.8.1, 9.9.11–9.10.15; Eutr. 10.4; Zos. 2.17. 4 This is not to ignore the more explicitly political dangers that Constantine faced. For example, keeping the city of Rome supplied with oil, grain, and corn was of vital importance for holding onto power, while the continuity of such provision was believed to depend on divine favour. See Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 18; Cod. Theod. 14.24–25; Timothy Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius: Theology and Politics in the Constantinian Empire (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), 178–179; Christoph Auffarth, ‘With the Grain Came the Gods from the Orient to Rome: The Example of Serapis and Some Systematic Reflections’ in Religions and Trade: Religious Formation, Transformation and Cross-Cultural Exchange between East and West (Peter Wick and Volker Rabens, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2014), 19–44 at 32. 5 A.H.M. Jones, Constantine and the Conversion of Europe (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1948), 97; Harold Drake, Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), 320. 6 Alistair Kee, Constantine versus Christ: The Triumph of Ideology (London: SCM Press, 1982), 103; Jonathan Bardill, Constantine: Divine Emperor of the Christian Golden Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 292. 7 See Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.21; Opt., App. 3, 5, 7. 8 For the letter, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.17–20, with divine favour mentioned at 3.17 and 3.20.2. 9 See pp. 164–168 in this volume. 10 Opitz, Urk. 25, 27, 28, respectively. 11 On ancient religion and warfare, see John Rich, ‘Roman Rituals of War’ in The Oxford Handbook of Warfare in the Classical World (Brian Campbell and Lawrence A. Tritle, ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 542–568; The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome (Krzysztof Ulanowski, ed.; Leiden: Brill, 2016); Jörg Rüpke, Peace and War in Rome: A Religious Construction of Warfare (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2019). 12 Livy 26.41, 44–45. 13 Plut., Vit. Mar. 14–22. 14 Plut., Vit. Sulla 6.1–5, 29.1–6. 15 Plut., Vit. Pomp. 68.1–3. 16 App., B Civ. 2.68. 17 Augustus, Res Gestae 21, 24; Suet., Aug. 29, 52; Cass. Dio 53.22.1–4. 18 Cass. Dio 68.25.5. Translation by Ernest Cary in Dio Cassius: Roman History, Vol. 8: Books 61–70 (LCL; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1914). 19 J. Mal., Chron. 11.8–9 (11.275–276). 20 Benjamin Garstad, ‘The Tyche Sacrifices in John Malalas: Virgin Sacrifice and Fourth-Century Polemical History’, Illinois Classical Studies 30 (2005), 83–135; Celia E. Schultz, ‘The Romans and Ritual Murder’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 78:2 (June 2010), 516–541. 21 The scenes of sacrifice are accessible online, for which see Roger B. Ulrich, ‘Trajan Conducting Sacrifice’, Trajan’s Column: The History, Archaeology, and Iconography of the Monument at http://www.trajans-column.org/?page_id=1041. Accessed online: 20 May 2021. On the date of the monument’s dedication and its significance, see Martin Beckmann, ‘Trajan’s Column and Mars Ultor’, Journal of Roman Studies 106 (2016), 124–146. 22 Two versions, including the Christian variant inserted by eleventh-century Byzantine epitomator John Xiphilinus, are found at Cass. Dio 72.8–10. See also Péter Kovács, Marcus Aurelius’ Rain Miracle and the Marcomannic Wars (Leiden: Brill, 2009);

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23

24 25 26 27 28 29

30

31 32 33 34

35 36

Martin Beckmann, The Column of Marcus Aurelius: The Genesis and Meaning of a Roman Imperial Monument (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2011), 133–140. For the ‘third-century crisis’, see Geza Aföldy, ‘The Crisis of the Third Century as Seen by Contemporaries’, GRBS 15:1 (Spring 1974), 89–111; Lukas de Blois, ‘The Crisis of the Third Century A.D. in the Roman Empire: A Modern Myth?’ in The Transformation of Economic Life under the Roman Empire: Proceedings of the Second Workshop of the International Network Impact of Empire: Roman Empire, c. 200 B.C.–A.D. 476, Nottingham, July 4–7, 2001 (Lukas de Blois and John Rich, eds.; Amsterdam: Gieben, 2004), 204–217; John Drinkwater, ‘Maximinus to Diocletian and the “Crisis”’ in The Cambridge Ancient History, Vol. 12: The Crisis of Empire, A.D. 193–337 (2nd ed.; Alan Bowman, Averil Cameron, and Peter Garnsey, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 28–66. Hist. Aug., Marc. 25.1–6; Eutr. 9.15.1; Aur. Vict., Caes. 35.7. For example, see Pan. Lat. 10.4.1–2, 10.11.6, 8.4.1–2, 7.8.1–3; cf. Eutr. 9.26; Aur. Vict., Caes. 39. Euseb., Vit. Const. 1.28–29, 1.37–38. Lactant., De mort. pers. 44.5. Pan. Lat. 6.21.3–7. Hans Pohlsander aptly noted that literature on issues related to Constantine and Christianity, including the emperor’s proclaimed visions, is so vast that ‘no scholar can claim to control it’. See Hans Pohlsander, The Emperor Constantine (2nd edn.; London: Routledge, 2004), 90. For interpretations of the ‘vision of Constantine’, see T.G. Elliott, ‘Constantine’s Conversion: Do We Really Need It?’, Phoenix 41:4 (Winter 1987), 420–438, esp. 427–438; Peter Weiss, ‘Die Vision Constantins’ in Colloquium aus Anlaß des 80. Geburtstages von Alfred Heuß (J. Bleicken, ed.; Frankfurter Althistorische Studien 13, Kallmünz, 1993), 143–169; Patrick Bruun, ‘The Victorious Signs of Constantine: A Reappraisal’, The Numismatic Chronicle 157 (1997), 41–59; Oliver Nicholson, ‘Constantine’s Vision of the Cross’, Vigiliae Christianae 54:3 (2000), 309–323; Jan N. Bremmer, ‘The Vision of Constantine’ in Land of Dreams: Greek and Latin Studies in Honour of A.H.M. Kessels (André Lardinois and Marc van der Poel, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 57–79. Jörg Rüpke, Religion of the Romans (Richard Gordon, trans. and ed.; Cambridge: Polity Press, 2007), 255–256; James Rives, ‘Religion in the Roman Empire’ in Experiencing Rome: Culture, Identity, and Power in the Roman Empire (Janet Huskinson, ed.; London: Routledge, 2000), 245–276. Cass. Dio 54.1.1–5. Eutr. 9.18–20; Aur Vict., Caes. 38–39; Hist. Aug., Car. 8.1–9.4, 12.1–2; cf. Drinkwater, ‘Maximinus to Diocletian’in Cambridge Ancient History, Vol. 12 (Bowman, Cameron, and Garnsey, eds.), 57–58. Cass. Dio 72; Eutr. 8.11–14; Aur. Vict., Caes. 16; Hist. Aug., Mar. 16.3–7, 18.1–8. Hist. Aug. Car. 9.4 (Carus: bonum principem), 11.1 (Numerian: moratus egregie et vere dignus imperio), 16–18 (Carinus’ vices). On imperial virtues and vices, see Carlos F. Noreña, Imperial Ideals in the Roman West: Representation, Circulation, Power (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 37–100; Catalina Balmaceda, Virtus Romana: Politics and Morality in the Roman Historians (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2017). On Constantine as ‘friend of God’, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 1.3.4, 1.38.2, 1.52, 3.26.5, 4.46. Concerning generosity, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 1.43, 3.8–9, 3.29, 4.1–2, 4.28. For Julian’s views, see Julian., Caes. 335–336. Eutr. 10.7–8. Translation by H.W. Bird in Eutropius: Breviarum (TTH; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2011), 66. On ancient observations of comets and their uses in Greek and Roman authors, see A.A. Barrett, ‘Observations of Comets in Greek

90 37 38 39

40 41

42 43 44

45 46

47 48 49 50 51 52 53

The doctrine of divine favour and agency and Roman Sources before A.D. 410’, Journal of the Royal Astronomical Society of Canada 72 (April 1978), 81–106. Aur. Vict., Caes. 41. Translation by H.W. Bird in Aurelius Victor: De Caesaribus (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1994), 51, and see 186n21–22. Zos. 2.29. Zos. 2.34.2. On such changes in frontier defence, see Edward N. Luttwak, The Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire from the First Century C.E. to the Third (rev. edn.; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2016), 146–215; Karl Strobel, ‘Strategy and Army Structure between Septimius Severus and Constantine the Great’ in A Companion to the Roman Army (Paul Erdkamp, ed.; Malden: Blackwell, 2007), 267– 285. Julian’s and Zosimus’ critiques of Constantine are discussed in Raymond Van Dam, Remembering Constantine at the Milvian Bridge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 34–41. Zos. 2.29.5. There is some uncertainty over timing and occasion in this passage. For varying views, see Bardill, Constantine, 288–289; Timothy Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 44 (cf. Barnes, Constantine, 83); Anna Leone, The End of the Pagan City: Religion, Economy, and Urbanism in Late Antique Africa (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 43. I accept Timothy Barnes’ date, though his shift in opinion that this could have political rather than religious motives should not be misunderstood as representing a dichotomy between ‘politics’ and ‘religion’ that did not exist at the time. Lactant., De mort. pers. 43.1–3. Lactant., De mort. pers. 45; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 9.10.1–6; Orig. Const. 5.13; Eutr. 10.4; Aur. Vict., Caes. 41. Licinius had defeated Daia by the time of the document’s publication in June 313, though not as yet when he met with Constantine in February. Lactant., De mort. pers. 45.5–6; Harold Drake, ‘Il 313: Constantino e i Christiani’ in Constantino I: enciclopedia constantinana sulla figura e l’immagine del’ imperatore del cosidetto editto di Milano, 313-2013 (A. Melloni, ed.; Roma: Instituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 2013), 169–170. I am grateful to Professor Drake for providing this article. For an account of the battle along with Licinius’ religious preparations, see Lactant., De mort. pers. 45–47. The text of the prayer dictated by Licinius and distributed among his troops is found at 46.6. For example, see Otto Seeck, ‘Das sogenannte Edikt von Mailand’, Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 12 (1891), 381–386; Milton V. Anastos, ‘The Edict of Milan (313): A Defence of Its Traditional Authorship and Designation’, Revue des études byzantines 25 (1967), 13–41; Timothy Barnes, ‘Constantine after Seventeen Hundred Years: The Cambridge Companion, The York Exhibition and a Recent Biography’, International Journal of the Classical Tradition 14:1/2 (Summer 2007), 185–220; Noel Lenski, ‘The Significance of the Edict of Milan’ in Constantine: Religious Faith and Imperial Policy (A. Edward Siecienski, ed.; London: Routledge, 2017), 27–56; Ramsay MacMullen, ‘Religious Toleration around the Year 313’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 22:4 (Winter 2014), 499–517. Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.2–12; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.2–14. Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.1. Barnes, ‘Constantine after Seventeen Hundred Years’, 186–190; cf. Barnes, Constantine, 93–97. Lenski, ‘Significance of the Edict of Milan’ in Constantine (Siecienski, ed.), 33–36. For this proclamation, commonly known as Galerius’ ‘edict of toleration’, see Lactant., De mort. pers. 34.1–5. Cass. Dio 52.36.1–4. See n49 above.

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 91 54 For the passage, see Lactant., De mort. pers. 24.9; cf. Lenski, ‘Significance of Edict of Milan’ in Constantine (Siecienski, ed.), 29–33. 55 Lactant., De mort. pers. 15.7. 56 For a comprehensive narrative of religious policy under Constantine’s immediate predecessors, see Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 11–43. 57 Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.2–12; cf. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.2–14; cf. pp. 38–39 in this volume. 58 Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.2: Cum feliciter tam ego [quam] Constantinus Augustus quam etiam ego Licinius Augustus apud Mediolanum convenissemus atque universae quae ad commoda et securitatem publicam pertinerent, in tractatu haberemus, haec inter cetera quae videbamus pluribus hominibus profutura, vel in primis ordinanda esse credidimus, quibus divinitatis reverentia continebatur, ut daremus et Christianis et omnibus liberam potestatem sequendi religionem quam quisque voluisset, quo quicquid divinitatis in sede caelesti, nobis atque omnibus qui sub potestate nostra sunt constituti, placatum ac propitium possit existere. 59 Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.2. 60 Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 194. For categories of polytheism and monotheism, see Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity (Polymnia Athanassiadi and Michael Frede, eds.; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999); Guy G. Strousma, The End of Sacrifice: Religious Transformations in Late Antiquity (Susan Emanuel, trans.; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009); One God: Pagan Monotheism in the Roman Empire (Stephen Mitchell and Peter Van Nuffeln, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010); Branka Migotti, ‘The Cult of Sol Invictus and Early Christianity in Aquae Iasae’ in Pagans and Christians in the Late Roman Empire: New Evidence, New Approaches (4th–8th Centuries) (Marianne Sághy and Edward M. Schoolman, eds.; Budapest: Central European University Press, 2017), 133–149. 61 Bardill, Constantine, 134. 62 Elisabeth Hermann-Otto, ‘The So-Called Edict of Milan and Constantinian Policy’, Annals of the Faculty of Law in Belgrade 61:3 (2013), 39–49 at 42. 63 Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.7–12. 64 Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.2–3, 48.6–12. For examples of Constantine’s later pronouncements regarding pagan religion, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24–42, 2.48–60, 3.52–53; Cod. Theod. 16.2.5, 16.10.1, (cf. 16.10.2, a law of Constans referring to an earlier non-extant law of Constantine prohibiting sacrifice). See also Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 210–212, 222–223, 246–248 (cf. Barnes, Constantine, 107–111); Scott Bradbury, ‘Constantine and the Problem of Anti-Pagan Legislation in the Fourth Century’, Classical Philology 89:2 (April 1994), 120–139; John Curran, ‘Constantine and the Ancient Cults of Rome: The Legal Evidence’, Greece & Rome 43:1 (April 1996), 68–80; Lucio De Giovanni, Chiesa e stato nel Codice Teodosiano: Saggio sul libro XVI (Naples: Tempi Moderni, 1980), 139; Roland Delmaire, ‘La législation sur les sacrifices au IVe siècle. Un essai d’interprétation’, Revue historique de droit français et étranger 82:3 (July–September 2004), 319–333. 65 Lactant., De mort. pers. 24.9, 34.1–5, 48.4–5; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.13.1; cf. Simon Corcoran, The Empire of the Tetrarchs: Imperial Pronouncements and Government, A.D. 284–324 (rev. edn.; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000), 145. 66 Lactant., De mort. pers. 44.1–9; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 9.9.1–8. 67 Lactant., De mort. pers. 10.1. 68 For Diocletian’s ‘anxiety’, see Lactant., De mort. pers. 10.2; cf. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.51.1. See also Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, ‘An Oracle of Apollo at Daphne and the Great Persecution’, Classical Philology 99 (2004), 57–77. 69 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.48–60. 70 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.50–51. 71 Bardill, Constantine, 134–137, 326–337.

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72 Bruno Bleckmann, ‘Constantine, Rome, and the Christians’ in Contested Monarchy: Integrating the Roman Empire in the Fourth Century A.D. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 309–329 at 319. See also n28 above. 73 Lactant., De mort. pers. 44.5; cf. Digeser, Making of a Christian Empire, 122. 74 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.6.1–5. On Ossius of Cordoba, see Victor Cyril De Clercq, Ossius of Cordova: A Contribution to the History of the Constantinian Period (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1954). 75 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.7.1–2. 76 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.6.1, 10.6.4. 77 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.6.5. 78 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18, 10.5.20. 79 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.20. 80 Opt., App. 5: sanctissimi antistites Christi salvatoris, fratres carissimi. For this letter’s date, see p. 40 in this volume. 81 Opt., App. 5: Sed deus omnipotens in caeli specula residens tribuit, quod non merebar: certe iam neque dici neque enumerari possunt ea, quae caelesti sua in me famulum suum benivolentia concessit. 82 Corcoran, Empire of the Tetrarchs, 335–336; Noel Lenski, Constantine and the Cities: Imperial Authority and Civic Politics (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016), 75. 83 August., Ep. 88.2. 84 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.20, 10.6.1–7.2. 85 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18 and 10.5.22, respectively. 86 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18. 87 Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, ‘Religion, Law, and the Roman Polity: The Era of the Great Persecution’ in Religion and Law in Classical and Christian Rome (Clifford Ando and Jörg Rüpke, eds.; Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2006), 69–70; Candida Moss, The Myth of Persecution: How Early Christians Invented a Story of Martyrdom (New York: HarperOne, 2013), 171. 88 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18. 89 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18. 90 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.7.1. 91 August., Ep. 88.2. 92 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18–19. 93 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.30.18–19; Cod. Theod. 1.27.1. 94 Timothy Barnes, The New Empire of Diocletian and Constantine (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1982), 71. 95 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18–21; Opt., App. 3. 96 Opt., De schism. donatist. 1.22. 97 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.22–23; Opt., App. 3. 98 Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 58n141. 99 Edwards, Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), 188n19. 100 David S. Potter, The Roman Empire at Bay: A.D. 180–395 (London: Routledge, 2004), 408; cf. pp. 191–201 in this volume for the persuasive power of the imperial presence. 101 Opt., App. 5: sed non profuit apud eos recta diiudicatio neque in eorum sensus ingressa est divinitas propitia … dico enim, ut se veritas habet sacerdotum iudicium ita debet haberi, ac si ipse dominus residens iudicet. 102 See pp. 141–142 in this volume. 103 Opt., App. 5. 104 The full citation is Opt., App. 5: O vere victrix providentia Christ salvatoris, ut etiam his consuleret, qui iam desciscentes a veritate quodammodo adversus ipsam arma inducentes gentibus se copulaverunt … quae ab ipsis sentitur humanitas, qui in ipso deo inmanes prosilierunt?

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 93 105 Opt., App. 7: plenissime universis tam Caeciliano quam his, qui contra eum agere videntur, lecto dilucido iudicio demonstraturus sum, quae et qualis summae divinitati sit adhibenda veneratio et cuiusmodi cultus delectare videatur. 106 Opt., App. 7. 107 Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 60; cf. Barnes, Constantine, 105. 108 Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 67; cf. Barnes, Constantine, 103. 109 Opt., De schism. Donatist. 1.5, 3.1, 4; Anon., ‘Sermon on Passion of Donatus and Advocatus’ in Donatist Martyr Stories (TTH; Maureen A. Tilley, trans.; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1996), 51–60. 110 Paul Stephenson, Constantine: Unconquered Emperor, Christian Victor (London: Quercus, 2011), 263–264; Maureen Tilley, ‘Introduction’ in Donatist Martyr Stories (Tilley, trans.), xxxi–xxxii, 51. 111 W.H.C. Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church: A Study of a Conflict from the Maccabees to Donatus (Cambridge: James Clarke, 2008 [1965]), 553–554; Potter, Roman Empire at Bay, 409–410. 112 See n107 above. 113 David C. Alexander, ‘Rethinking Constantine’s Interaction with the North African, “Donatist” Schism’ in Rethinking Constantine: History, Theology, and Legacy (Edward L. Smither, ed.; Eugene: Pickwick, 2014), 37–90 at 76–77. 114 Alexander, ‘Rethinking Constantine’s Interaction’ in Rethinking Constantine (Smither, ed.), 77. 115 Opt., App. 7. 116 Opt., App. 7: adhibito etiam diligenti examine ea, quae nunc aliqui exinde inlecebris mentis ignorantiaeque occultare se putant, plenissime sum reperturus atque in lucem facturus venire. 117 Opt., App. 7: verum lecta hac epistola tam Caeciliano quam hisdem palam facias, quod cum favente pietate divina Africam venero … sum diligentissime quaesiturus idque iudicaturus, quod verissimum et religiosissimum esse manifestum sit, demonstraturus etiam hisdem. 118 Opt., App. 7, 9. For the dates, see p. 41 in this volume. 119 Opt., App. 9, 10. For the date, see p. 41 in this volume. 120 For the date, see Barnes, New Empire, 82. 121 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.23.1–2. 122 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.23.2–3. 123 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.46.1–3. 124 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.48–60. 125 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24.1–3, 2.29.1, 2.42, 2.46.2, 2.49–56. 126 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24.1–2, 2.28.1–2, 2.42, 2.46.1–2, 2.48.1, 2.49–53, 2.55.1–2, 2.57–59. 127 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24.1, 2.29.2–3, 2.37–42, 2.46.1–2, 2.55, 2.57–59. 128 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.29.3 (τῷ θεράποντι τοῦ θεοῦ), 2.31.2 (οἳ θεοῦ θεράποντεν). For Constantine’s other uses of this title in various forms, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.28.2 (τὴν ἐμὴν ὑπηρεσίαν … θεραπείαν τῇ παρ’ ἐμοῦ παιδευόμενον ὑπουργίᾳ), 2.38 (τῷ μεγίστῳ διακονεῖται θεῷ), 2.46.1 (τοὺς ὑπηρέτας τοῦ σωτῆρος θεοῦ), 2.46.2 (ἡμετέρᾳ δ’ ὑπηρεσίᾳ), 2.55.1 (ἐμοῦ τοῦ σοῦ θεράποντος), 2.65.2 (τοῦ θεοῦ θεράπουσιν), 2.71.2 (τοῦ μεγάλου θεοῦ θεράποντας), 2.72.1 (τῶν συνθεραπόντων λέγω τῶν ἐμῶν), 3.17.2 (συνθεράπων), 3.30.1 (τοῖς ἑαυτοῦ θεράπουσιν), 4.42.1 (τοὺς τοῦ Χριστοῦ νῦν ἀπηλλάχθαι θεράποντας); Opitz, Urk. 25.3 (συνθεράπων ὑμέτερος), 27.6 (τὸν ὑμέτερον συνθεράποντα), 27.17 (τοῦ θεράποντος τοῦ θεοῦ), 32.2 (τοῦ ὑμετέρου συνθεράποντος), 32.3 (ὁ ὑμέτερος σύνθεράποντος); Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 86.9 (ὃν τοῦ θεοῦ εἷναι γνήσιον θεράποντα οὐδ' ἂν ὑμεῖς ἀρνηθείητε), 86.11 (ἐμὲ τὸν θεοῦ θεράποντα). 129 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.55–59.

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130 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.55.1: Σὲ νῦν τὸν μέγιστον θεὸν παρακαλῶ· εἴης πρᾶός τε καὶ εὐμενὴς τοῖς σοῖς ἀνατολικοῖς, εἴης πᾶσι τοῖς σοῖς ἐπαρχιώταις ὑπὸ χρονίου συμφορᾶς συντριβεῖςι, διʹ ἐμοῦ τοῦ σοῦ θεράποντος ὀρέγων ἴασιν. For metaphorical aspects of healing in Constantine’s language, see pp. 112–118 in this volume. 131 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.48.2. 132 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.49.1–2. 133 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.52–54. 134 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.55.1. 135 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.55.2: τὸ μὲν γὰρ ὄνομά σου γνησίως ἀγαπῶ, τὴν δὲ δύναμιν εὐλαβοῦμαι, ἣν πολλοῖς τεκμηρίοις ἔδειξας καὶ τὴν ἐμὴν πίστιν βεβαιοτέραν εἰργάσω. ἐπείγομαι γοῦν καὶ τοὺς ὤμους αὐτὸς ὑποσχὼν τοὺς ἐμοὺς τὸν ἁγιώτατόν σου οἶκον νανεώσασθαι, ὃν οἱ μυσαροὶ ἐκεῖνοι καὶ σεβέστατοι τῷ τοπήματι τῆς καθαιρέσεως ἐλυμήναντο. 136 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.56.1–2. 137 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.61; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.4; Sozom., Hist. eccl. 1.15; Theod., Hist. eccl. 1.1. 138 For different views on the conflict’s origins, see Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 205–207; R.P.C. Hanson, The Search for Christian Doctrine of God: The Arian Controversy, 318–381 (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005 [1988]), 129–138; John Behr, Nicene Faith, Part 1: True God of True God (Crestwood: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2004), 62–66; David M. Gwynn, The Eusebians: The Polemic of Athanasius of Alexandria and the Construction of the ‘Arian Controversy’ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 59–69. 139 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.61–62; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.5. 140 Euseb., Vit. Const. 1.51.1. 141 Euseb., Vit. Const. 1.49.1, 1.51.1–2; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.3. 142 Hanson, Search for Christian Doctrine, 134–136; Gwynn, Eusebians, 61. 143 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.65.1–2, 2.68.1. 144 Barnes, New Empire, 76. 145 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.66–68.1. 146 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.61–62, 3.4.1–5.2, 3.16.1–19.3. 147 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.17–20; Opitz, Urk. 25. 148 See Chapter 6 in this volume. 149 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.64–72. 150 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.63, 2.73. 151 Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.7. 152 Paul Parvis, ‘Constantine’s Letter to Arius and Alexander?’, Studia Patristica 39 (2006), 89–95; cf. B.H. Warmington, ‘The Sources of Some Constantinian Documents in Eusebius’ Church History and Life of Constantine’, Studia Patristica 18:1 (1985), 93–98; Stuart G. Hall, ‘Some Constantinian Documents in the Vita Constantini’ in Constantine: History, Historiography and Legend (Samuel N.C. Lieu and Dominic Montserrat, eds.; London: Routledge, 1998), 86–103. 153 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.69, 2.71.2–7. 154 Opitz, Urk. 1.2. 155 Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.7; cf. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.6.2. 156 Parvis, ‘Constantine’s Letter’, 90–92. 157 Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 240–242; Bardill, Constantine, 291–293; Øyvind Norderval, ‘The Emperor Constantine and Arius: Unity in the Church and Unity in the Empire’, Studia Theologica 42 (1988), 113–150 at 118–120. 158 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.64–65.1: Διπλῆν μοι γεγενῆσθαι πρόφασιν τούτων, ὧν ἔργῳ τὴν χρείαν ὑπέστην, αὐτὸν ὡς είκὸς τὸν τῶν ἐμῶν ἐγχειρμάτων βοηθὸν καὶ σωτῆρα τῶν ὅλων θεὸν ποιοῦμαι μάρτυρα. Πρῶτον μὲν γὰρ τὴν ἁπάντων τῶν ἐθνῶν περὶ τὸ θεῖον πρόθεσιν [εἰς] μίαν ἕξεως σύστασιν ἑνῶσαι, δεύτερον δὲ τὸ τῆς κοινῆς

The doctrine of divine favour and agency 95 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168

169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176

177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184

185 186 187

οἰκουμένης σῶμα καθάπερ χαλεπῷ τινι τραύματι πεπονηκὸς ἀνακτήσασθαι καὶ συναρμόσαι. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.65.1–2; cf. Lactant., Div. inst. 5.19.21–23. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.65.2: εἰδὼς ὡς εἰ κοινὴν ἅπασι τοῖς τοῦ θεοῦ θεράπουσιν ἐπʹ εύχαῖς ταῖς ἐμαῖς ὁμόνοιαν καταστήσαιμι, καὶ ἡ τῶν δημοσίων πραγμάτων χρεία σύνδρομον ταῖς ἁπάντων εὐσεβέσι γνώμαις τὴν μεταβολὴν καρπώσεται. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.1. Gr. Naz. Or. 5.13. Lib. Or. 17.23, 33. Amm. Marc. 25.9–10. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.2–3. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.2. For this phrase, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.3. For occurrences of the phrase in various forms throughout the letter, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.2–3, 2.71.1, 2.71.3. Norderval, ‘Constantine and Arius’, 115, 118–121; Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 238–244; Stephenson, Constantine, 265–266; A.H.M. Jones, The Later Roman Empire, 284–602: A Social, Economic, and Administrative Survey, Vol. 1 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1973), 86. See Mark Edwards, ‘Why Did Constantine Label Arius a Porphyrian?’ L’Antiquité Classique 82 (2013), 239–247. Euseb., Vit. Const. 4.29. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.72.1 See pp. 76–77 in this volume. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.29.3, 2.31.2, 2.38. For θεραπεία in this context, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.55.1; Ath., Apol. contra 86.11. For ὑπηρεσία, also referring to Constantine’s military conquests, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.28.2, 2.46.2. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.71.2, 2.72.1, 3.17.2, 4.42.1; Opitz, Urk. 25.3, 27.6, 27.17, 32.2, 32.3; Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 86.9, 86.11. Cf. Ex. 14:31; Num. 12:7–8; Rom. 1:1; Tit. 1:1. For Drake’s argument that Constantine styled himself after Paul, see Drake, ‘The Emperor as a “Man of God”: The Impact of Constantine the Great’s Conversion on Roman Ideas of Kingship’, Historia 35 (2016) [online journal], at: https://doi.org/10.1590/1980-436920160000000083, accessed 16 July 2018. Euseb., Vit. Const. 1.12, 1.19, 1.38–39. For Paul’s conversion narratives, see Acts 9:1–19, 22:1–21, and 26:1–23. For example, see n176 above. See n174 above. For other occurrences of this title, see n128 above. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.5.3–6.1. For warfare as a metaphorical theme in early Christianity, see Eph. 6:10–20; II Cor. 10:3–5; I John 5:3–5; Tert. Mart. 3; Ath., Vit. Ant. 3–9. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.6.1–9. Translation by Averil Cameron and Stuart Hall: see Eusebius: Life of Constantine (CAHS; Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall, trans.; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 123. Opitz, Urk. 20. For example, see Norderval, ‘Constantine and Arius’, 123; Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 251–252; Alastair H.B. Logan, ‘Marcellus of Ancyra and the Councils of A.D. 325: Antioch, Ancyra, Nicaea’, JThS 43:2 (October 1992), 428–436; Barnes, Constantine, 121. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 214–215; Hanson, Search for Christian Doctrine, 152–153. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.10.1–5. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.10.3.

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188 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.5.2: μόνῳ δ' ἄρα τῷ παντουνάμῳ θεῷ καὶ ταῦτ' ἰᾶσθαι ῥᾴδιον ἦν, ἀγαθῶν δ' ὑπηρέτης αὐτῷ μόνος τῶν ἐπὶ γῆς κατεφαίνετο Κωνσταντῖνος. 189 Eutr. 9.26; Aur. Vic., Caes. 39. See also Christian Rollinger, ‘The Importance of Being Splendid: Competition, Ceremonial, and the Semiotics of Status at the Court of the Late Roman Emperors (4th–6th Centuries)’ in Gaining and Losing Imperial Favour in Late Antiquity: Representation and Reality (Kamil Cyprian Choda, Maurits Sterk de Leeuw, and Fabian Schulz, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2020), 36–72 at 54–62. 190 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.10.4–5. 191 For reference to this bishop’s speech and identification, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.11; cf. Theod., Hist. eccl. 1.6. The speech of Constantine paraphrased by Eusebius appears at Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.12.1–5. 192 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.12.3: ὅτε γοῦν τὰς κατὰ τῶν πολεμίων νίκας νεύματι καὶ συνεργίᾳ τοῦ κρείττονος ἠράμην, οὐδέν [γε] λείπειν ἐνόμιζον ἢ θεῷ μὲν γινώσκειν τὴν χάριν, συγχαίρειν δὲ καὶ τοῖς [ὑπ'] αὐτοῦ διʹ ἡμῶν ἠλευθερωμένοις. ἐπειδὴ δὲ τὴν ὑμετέραν διάστασιν παρʹ ἐλπίδα πᾶσαν ἐπυθόμην, οὐκ ἐν δευτέρῳ τὴν ἀκοὴν ἐθέμην, τυχεῖν δὲ καὶ τοῦτο θεραπείας διʹ ἐμῆς εὐξάμενος ὑπηρεσίας τοὺς πάντας ἀμελλήτως μετεστειλάμην. 193 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.12.5. 194 Drake highlights the notion of competing ‘agendas and priorities that clouded relations between Constantine and the bishops’. His work also emphasises the variety of contending purposes among the bishops themselves. See Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 30–31, 235–271.

3

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity

With the benefit of hindsight after assuming power as sole ruler in 324, Constantine described his career to that point as divinely guided and his task thereafter to unite the empire in the worship of God. He wrote at this time in his letter to the provincials of Palestine that: He [the supreme God] both examined and judged my services fit for the purposes of his will. And, beginning from the British sea and the more remote portions where it is appointed by a mightier necessity that the sun sinks, I have driven back and scattered the horrible things that held fast everything in order that, taught by my rendered services, the human race might restore the service of the most holy law while at the same time, the faith deemed blessed might increase under the guiding of the greater God. I could never become senseless about the gratitude that is due, believing that this is the best of services, this is a gift granted to me. Now my advance proceeds as far as [the East], which, held fast by more serious matters indeed also cries out for a greater cure from us.1 Constantine proceeded in this letter to announce policies intended to restore the status and property of those who, according to him, had suffered for their allegiance to God under previous emperors. Such references to Constantine’s predecessors had in mind Diocletian, Galerius, Maximinus Daia, and Licinius. The first three had indeed acted fiercely in opposition to Christianity, but Licinius—while not a persecutor of Christians with the same intensity—allowed Constantine to portray him as such by initiating some restrictive measures in reference to them.2 The letter closed by referring again to Constantine’s success as signifying God’s benevolence towards all, arguing on this basis that the empire ought to embrace gratefully a broad and tolerant form of Christianity.3 The emperor made a similar claim in his letter to the eastern provincials, basing his position here on his beliefs concerning a rational order in nature that directed right-thinking people to acknowledge the supreme God. Just as such evidence ought to guide the human intellect to recognise one God, according to the emperor, so that acknowledgement should therefore lead to the unity of those who worship him. By contrast, he asserted that his rivals and predecessors had DOI: 10.4324/9781003215677-4

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acted wickedly out of their own twisted polytheistic thinking: such irrational opposition to the true monotheistic divine order by these emperors resulted in civil war and their own ignominious deaths with no one to avenge or succeed them.4 However, Constantine openly invoked the one supreme God who had led him to unite the empire at the head of his victorious army.5 With one emperor now ruling the whole empire as the agent of one God, Constantine believed his subjects ought to be united in worship that even enabled ‘the misled’ (πλανώμενοι) to co-exist peacefully with Christians.6 Christianity enjoyed the emperor’s favour and support, and the implication was clear enough that he preferred it to any other form of worship for those under his rule. This predilection for Christianity was not as pronounced in the religious policy agreed with Licinius over a decade earlier, but Constantine now declared his hope that a policy of concord would eventually correct ‘those in error’ and bring them into the ‘right way’.7 Unfortunately for the emperor’s agenda, however, uniting the Christians themselves (to say nothing of Christians and pagans) may have been an even greater challenge for him in the East than doing so earlier proved to be in North Africa. Therefore, these initial communications by Constantine to the eastern provinces after obtaining sole rule reveal a close association between monotheism and unity in his expressed thinking.8 The notion that proper devotion to one God should be characterised by unity of the worshippers was also latent in the emperor’s earlier correspondence addressing the ruptured fellowship of the North African churches. Though it was not stated explicitly in his letter summoning Chrestus of Syracuse to attend the Council of Arles in 314, the emperor’s view that only a unified body of worshippers could rightly venerate one God lay behind his stated assumption that Christians ‘ought to have the same mind and brotherly harmony’.9 The same connection of monotheism and unity was expressed negatively in the imperial documents, preserved by Optatus regarding the Donatist schism before 324, where Constantine voiced concern that unchecked conflict might provoke divine wrath.10 Monotheism is related explicitly with unity regarding the North African situation in Constantine’s letter to several named Caecilianist bishops (dated approximately six years after his opening communications to the East): Since the supreme God, who is the author and father of this world … established his will that the whole human race might agree and somehow be joined together in common fellowship with goodwill as if in mutual embraces, there is no doubt that heresy and schism have proceeded from the devil who is the source of malice.11 The basis of Constantine’s argument for unity is the will of God, who is the Almighty Creator and generous source of human benefits. If unity pleases God, according to the emperor, then continued work towards such solidarity demonstrated by these bishops’ apparent willingness to surrender rather than fight for contested church property may counteract the dangerous consequences of persistence in divisiveness by others.

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 99 Thus, as argued in the previous chapter, Constantine consistently prioritised the necessity of pleasing God with efforts towards achieving unity as a means towards that end: his primary concern was to be seen maintaining divine favour effectively in order to continually reinforce the legitimacy of his rule. But what sort of unity did Constantine desire to help the churches achieve? When the emperor declaimed in his letters regarding the unity among Christians that he believed ought to correlate with the one-ness of their God, did he mean strict uniformity in the churches’ beliefs, practices, and organisational structures? Or to what extent might he have endorsed a broader unity that conceded some measure of variety in these areas? This chapter contends that Constantine’s intentions for ecclesiastical unity were characterised by both uniformity and inclusivity, but in relation to his perception of two kinds of division. Concerning the churches’ institutional practices—particularly its rituals and leadership structures—he expected these to conform with a single, uniform order as determined by a majority of assembled bishops. But where conflict between ecclesiastical factions centred on details of what the churches believed and taught, he desired that communion would be prioritised over theological precision. Historians often refer to ‘unity’ regarding Constantine, but few argue for a more specific understanding of what it meant to the emperor.12 No major scholar of Constantine’s reign has yet attempted to understand the particular kinds of unity he desired relative to the churches’ hierarchies, practices, and teachings. Constantine’s well-known explicit statements about unity in general are quoted by these authors—some of which include figurative language used by the emperor. Such authors discuss ecclesiastical unity, but the figurative language is never analysed at length: the assumption seems to be that anything Constantine says explicitly about unity is sufficient in order to understand his meaning. As a result, some clarity is lost and readers are left to insert their own interpretations of what ‘unity’ meant for the emperor. Øyvind Norderval deals with the theme of unity in a 1988 article at greater length than even recent authors with book-length studies of Constantine, and so he is my main dialogue partner in this chapter.13 Norderval focuses on the ‘Arian controversy’ with emphasis on the failure of Constantine’s efforts to see ecclesiastical unity achieved. However, I approach unity from the angle of what Constantine wanted in the first place rather than accounting for his inability to accomplish his goals. I also give more equal attention than Norderval to this emperor’s engagements with the Donatist schism. Furthermore, this scholar’s use of Constantine’s explicit statements about unity seems to make obvious sense. Yet this fails to account for the prevalence of figurative language, the analysis of which contributes towards our ability to more precisely understand the emperor’s overt assertions. This is the sort of examination undertaken here, focusing on two parallel themes appearing prominently in Constantine’s discourse of ecclesiastical unity—‘madness and reason’ and ‘sickness and healing’. Analysis of these themes shows that this emperor consistently applied two definitions of unity to a pair of distinct problems causing ecclesiastical conflicts. Using imagery related to madness and reason, Constantine communicated his will that uniformity ought to characterise unity in the churches when he perceived divisions caused

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by differences concerning ecclesiastical rites and organisation. By employing metaphors of sickness and healing, the emperor made it known that unity should be exemplified by general harmony in theological matters. The second and third sections of this chapter treat ‘madness and reason’ and ‘sickness and healing’ separately in the chronological order of their prevalent use by Constantine. The next section is intended to help set up that analysis.

Preliminary issues Three matters need brief discussion in order to place the interpretation of Constantine’s ‘madness and reason’ and ‘sickness and healing’ metaphors on a proper basis. First, we need to define some key terminology such as ‘unity’, ‘uniformity’, and ‘concord’. Second, we should try to understand the ideological context of imperial ‘restoration’ within which Constantine’s figurative language can be better interpreted. Third, the concepts of madness and medicine will be briefly described in their fourth-century milieu to avoid any potentially anachronistic interpretations of their use as figurative imagery by Constantine. Terminology Unity, as used here, embraces both ‘uniformity’ and ‘concord’ and features prominently in Roman imperial rhetoric.14 The two words that appear most often to communicate ideas of unity in Constantine’s surviving correspondence are the Greek ὁμόνοια and concordia in Latin. Ὁμόνοια makes nine appearances in the Greek translations of Constantinian documents preserved by Eusebius.15 The same word in Greek occurs a further six times in imperial letters written between the end of the Council of Nicaea (325) and the Council of Tyre (335).16 Concordia appears three times in the imperial documents that form part of Optatus’ dossier.17 Constantine’s concept of unity, as shown throughout his correspondence, can be subdivided into three types (although this should not be taken as implying a complete conceptual separation between them): imperial, religious, and ecclesiastical unity. This study emphasises ecclesiastical unity. But this aspect of what Constantine wanted to accomplish was joined by his concern for establishing religious unity in order to bring about imperial unity. For Constantine, achieving and maintaining a general cohesion of the regions under his authority required the peaceful co-existence of Christians with one another as well as the rest of Roman society. This does not undermine the previous chapter’s argument regarding the primacy of managing divine favour effectively, which might be misinterpreted as suggesting that religion was more important than political power in Constantine’s mind. On the contrary, being seen to maintain divine favour had everything to do with an emperor’s legitimacy and ability to hold on to power: Constantine was a very typical emperor in this regard. Therefore, there is an emphasis on different aspects of Constantine’s aims (divine favour in Chapter 2 and unity here), but no contradiction in the sense of trying to give each the same degree of priority for the emperor.

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 101 By ‘imperial unity’, I refer to the political unity of all provinces under Constantine’s rule at any given point during his approximately 30-year reign. Unlike those ancient writers who accused Constantine of excessive ambition, he did not assume power over Britain, Gaul, and Spain in July 306 with immediate aspirations to rule the entire empire alone.18 Nor was this indisputably his intended goal when he became the solitary ruler in the West after defeating Maxentius in October 312. It could be objected here that the imperial panegyric, dated to the year 310, which contained the so-called ‘vision of Apollo’ either suggested the notion of sole universal rule to Constantine, or reflected what was already in his mind at the time.19 However, while the speaker addressed this speech to Constantine, this was not intended as a slight to the other ruling members of the tetrarchy.20 Additionally, the likelihood that Constantine would have been pleased to hear that he was deserving of ruling the empire alone did not necessarily mean he desired to do so as of 310. Until the second civil war against Licinius (323– 324), we cannot assert definitively that Constantine had done anything more up to that point than take fortunate advantage of political and military opportunities as they arose. This does not mean that the thought of sole rule never crossed his mind or that he lacked ambition. But when speaking of Constantine and his overall approach to unity, we can say no more with certainty beyond the fact that he consistently sought to unite all provinces under his rule. This, of course, grew to include the whole empire—but only after September 324. ‘Religious unity’ concerns relations between Christians and non-Christians in the empire.21 Having ended persecution as imperial policy, Constantine perceived the need to ensure a peaceful place for Christians in society without alienating the non-Christian majority. By distinguishing between ‘imperial’ and ‘religious’ types of unity (again, without separating them totally), it is to be remembered that the Roman Empire was a religious institution at the same time that it was a political or military entity.22 Therefore, qualifying terms like ‘political’ or ‘religious’ should not be understood synonymously with modern usage of the words ‘secular’ and ‘sacred’: we may admit a certain level of distinction, but not a wholly separate conceptualisation. Finally, ‘ecclesiastical unity’ deals with matters internal to the churches in response to divisions between rival factions over organisational or theological concerns, as Constantine understood such issues distinctly. Overcoming conflicts among Christians became a more urgent matter as the emperor’s awareness increased regarding the reality and depth of such discord, as indicated by his growing involvement and escalating levels of rhetoric. Ecclesiastical unity, then, denotes the unity of the Christian churches with one another: Constantine’s concern in this regard pertained to ecclesiastical unity on an institutional and theological basis (and was shaped by his view of the main divisions he encountered among Christians). The precise nature of ecclesiastical unity sought by Constantine is the chapter’s key question: was it better understood in terms of homogeneity or diversity within a somewhat more flexible unity? Since I argue that both aspects of unity—uniformity and concord—applied distinctly to different cases in Constantine’s language, my use of these two terms needs brief clarification. ‘Uniformity’ indicates a general, though not necessarily

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absolute, homogeneity of practice in relation to the visible rites and organisation of the churches within the empire. ‘Concord’ describes a harmonious agreement between Christians characterised by social communion despite any differences over inwardly held theological convictions or speculations that might otherwise contribute to discord.23 The two terms are distinguished from each other in that institutional uniformity involves conforming to an abstract standard, while theological concord entails a relational emphasis allowing for certain levels of diversity within an overall unity. The other side of ecclesiastical unity is division, which Christians experienced at this time as the mutual exclusion of one faction of believers by another combined with either group’s refusal to recognise episcopal or conciliar decisions opposed to their own party’s interests. For Constantine, schism (σχίσμα) centred on differences that had to do with the proper order and discipline of ecclesiastical rites and organisation.24 Factionalism also resulted, as the emperor discovered after 324, from theological disagreements. It was a significant source of anxiety for Constantine that such dissensions among the Christians might be used by others to justify their refusal to participate in the divine worship that he had declared was integral to the empire’s preservation under his rule.25 In order to restore imperial unity based on religious unity (unified worship of one supreme God), the emperor necessarily had to restore ecclesiastical unity. Restoration in Constantine’s rhetoric of unity Constantine’s direct and figurative statements related to unity ought to be understood in the context of a traditional imperial ideology of ‘restoration’. By the early fourth century, restoration was a well-established notion in Roman political and military life. The civil wars of the first centuries bc and ad, which culminated in the rise of Octavian as the princeps Augustus, were each fought by various opponents claiming to restore republican values and ancient liberties.26 For example, when envoys from Rome demanded to know Sulla’s reasons for marching against the city, he replied: ‘To deliver her from tyrants [i.e., those loyal to his opponent Marius]’.27 Sulla tried thus to deflect his own appearance as a tyrant, since leading an army into Rome remained a serious taboo at this time, by claiming the tyrants were already there and needed to be driven out in order to preserve public liberty. Pompey, with his ties to Julius Caesar just dissolved by the death of his wife (Caesar’s daughter, Julia), may have encouraged talk among some of the Roman populace that present ills might require an unusual solution such as the one-man rule of someone like himself.28 Caesar’s later assassins claimed to have killed him in order to restore the Republic, which they said he had undermined so thoroughly (despite his several earlier public refusals to accept kingship).29 Decades later, Caesar’s great-nephew Octavian (who had taken the title ‘Augustus’ after overcoming the last of his rivals) claimed repeatedly to have acted to restore lost liberties and customs.30 Themes of restoring senatorial dignity and autonomy, or the security and expansion of imperial territory, continued in historical writing that covered the rest of the first and second centuries ad. Nero Claudius Drusus, brother to emperor Tiberius

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 103 (r. ad 14–37) and father of Claudius (r. ad 41–54), was known as having republican sympathies well after Augustus established his new order. Second-century historian Suetonius reported that Tiberius denounced his late sibling’s political leanings by producing a letter in which Drusus allegedly discussed the possibility of pressuring Augustus in some way to restore the Republic.31 Vespasian (r. ad 69–79) was said—quite plausibly—to have treated the strengthening of a weakened empire as a matter of highest priority.32 According to the senator and contemporary witness Cassius Dio, the emperor Pertinax (r. 192–193) inadvertently sent the wrong message to his soldiers just after Commodus’ assassination by telling them that all sources of present distress would soon be set right.33 Dio lightly criticised this emperor after his assassination for trying to restore too much too soon.34 By the latter third and early fourth centuries, the rhetoric of restoration had shifted from focusing on territorial expansion and lingering republican attachments so that emperors were viewed as restoring the empire’s unity and security.35 Thus, for example, Aurelian (r. 270–275) was said to have restored the empire to its former extent through his victories over the separatist Gallic and Palmyrene Empires—taking the title ‘restorer of the world’.36 Diocletian (r. 284–305) made further advances to restore the empire’s unity and security by re-organising the imperial system through a number of administrative, economic, military, and religious reforms. While it is beyond the present scope to discuss these measures in detail, some included establishing a theoretically harmonious system of rule in which power was shared by four emperors, orchestrating an elaborate ceremony that governed access to an emperor, doubling the number of provinces and grouping them into twelve dioceses with an accompanying increase in the size of the imperial bureaucracy, enlarging the army along the frontiers, revitalising the tax system and attempting to curb inflation with a freeze on maximum prices, and ridding the empire of influences (such as Manichaeism and Christianity) perceived as undermining social order.37 The rescript on fixing prices (301) and the edict condemning the Manichaeans (c. 302) each exhibit the rhetoric of an emperor who wanted to be seen as setting what he deemed particular wrongs to right. Diocletian concluded his proscription of Manichaeism with the stated aim of eradicating ‘this plague of iniquity … from this our most happy age’.38 The document concerning maximum prices, written in the names of all four emperors, heavily emphasised the context of restoration. Following the names and various titles of each emperor, it is claimed that the empire’s security from foreign invasion was established with divine support—thus, the emperors turned their attention to safeguarding justice domestically by this law aimed at countering widespread greed.39 For the most part, Constantine maintained Diocletian’s policies with the notable pair of exclusions that involved dis-establishing the collegial system of rule and ending religious persecution. He declared both of these to be counter-productive in their intended object of restoring the empire, and explained his opposing approach by appealing to his own monotheism in contrast with his predecessor’s polytheism.40 That approach required uniting the empire under a single ruler aligned with the one supreme God whom he believed granted him victory.41 To

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that end of achieving such unity, Constantine expressed the desire for the peaceful co-existence of all imperial subjects.42 This model, announced in his two letters to the East in 324, developed throughout his reign as he responded pragmatically to various opportunities and problems. Constantine’s goal of achieving religious unity was likely pursued prior to the agreement with Licinius and announced subsequently by the latter emperor. His father, Constantius, had not implemented Diocletian’s anti-Christian measures in the West with as much enthusiasm as his colleagues (including Maximian in Italy and Africa).43 Immediately on succeeding his late father in 306, Constantine may have sought to distinguish his own religious policy even further by promoting toleration.44 He further extended this approach in agreement with Licinius in 313: by returning property belonging to Christian communities and reimbursing the current non-Christian holders of such possessions from the treasury, these two emperors tried to ensure that there would be no grounds for recrimination against Christians when others were legally bound to surrender any property obtained through confiscation during the persecutions.45 At the same time, the implication of a repeated emphasis on granting liberty in religion ‘both to Christians and to all’ (et Christianis et omnibus) was that no Christian could expect to be justified or excused in seeking vengeance against their former persecutors.46 Just over a decade later as Constantine established control of the whole empire, he announced a similar intention to establish unity based on peace between Christians and non-Christians.47 But first, the emperor decided that religious unity would have to wait until divisions among the Christians themselves could be resolved.48 To communicate his intentions in this regard, he relied on metaphorical language involving motifs of ‘madness and reason’ as well as ‘sickness and healing’ often combined with his more explicit statements on the subject.49 The use of such language was more than rhetorical flourish, making known that the emperor desired not simply a generic ‘unity’ among Christians but a specific type that entailed institutional uniformity and theological concord. But before proceeding to examine these symbolic modes of discourse as Constantine used them, we should remember that these corresponding concepts of mental and physical well-being were understood differently in the ancient world than we view them today. Madness and medicine in classical antiquity Neither psychiatry nor psychology existed as professions in classical antiquity. Instead, as Bennett Simon noted, ‘theories of mind were primarily under the designation of philosophy (to a lesser degree under the rubric of medicine)’.50 The schools of Plato, Aristotle, and the Stoics—forming the philosophical backbone of the Roman world—generally agreed that passion and desire resulted in madness unless governed according to the moderating principles of reason.51 It is difficult to draw a clear distinction between the medical and philosophical origins of madness or insanity as irrational thinking in ancient understanding. According to a medical model, madness was potentially connected to a lack of physical health due to an imbalance of the four bodily humours.52 Aloys Winterling stresses the

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 105 medical aspects of madness by bringing attention to the works of Celsus and Galen.53 Yet despite that emphasis, Winterling’s definition of madness as ‘a construct of reality by an individual diverging from that which is universally accepted as valid by society around them’ leaves plenty of room for a more intellectual understanding in terms of one’s loss of reasoning ability.54 When Constantine spoke or wrote using figurative imagery related to madness and reason, he did so in a philosophical or intellectual, rather than medical sense. This can be seen in a brief passage from the Oration to the Assembly of the Saints where Constantine defined virtue in terms of human life moderated by reason and avoiding surrender to the irrational impulses of passion: ‘For the heart is not a little roused to anger, and appetite acts with violence, and whenever they get the better of reason they overthrow the senseless whenever the reason may become overpowered’.55 The imagery of passion and reason as a team of wild horses restrained by a skilful charioteer comes from Plato, in a passage from the Phaedrus.56 The immediate context for such remarks within Constantine’s speech is a particular brand of cosmological rationalism espoused by the emperor here and in examples of his correspondence. For Constantine, the cosmos was ordered rationally according to a monotheistic view of divinity: there is one ruler over all things that abide, and everything is subjected to his power alone, both heavenly things and the things on earth, natural things and organic bodies. For if there were not one but happened to be countless other authorities, there would be random chance and distribution of the elements and [things spoken in] ancient myths; envy and arrogance, prevailing according to their power, would violently shake the harmonious whole of all things, as many who manage differently the lots distributed to each would at the same time neglect the whole cosmos in the same manner … The result would be anger, discord, and reproach as no one either acts independently about what concerns them or is satisfied through greed, which would be followed by the confusion of everything.57 This view that a rational universe was created and maintained with a discernible sense of order by one supreme God is also found in Constantine’s letter to the eastern provincials. The letter opens with a statement of this view in which the emperor asserted that it ought to be evidently clear to all right-thinking people.58 Further on in the same document, Constantine again claimed that the predictable movements of the heavenly bodies, the cycles of seasons, and the ordered patterns of other natural processes indicated a cosmic stability that would be impossible if governed by multiple, mutually competitive divine beings.59 Therefore, the sections of this chapter relevant to ‘madness and reason’ interpret such imagery as it appears throughout Constantine’s correspondence according to this type of cosmological rationalism adopted by the emperor. Medicine in classical antiquity is described by historian of medicine Manfred (H.F.J.) Horstmanshoff as a ‘subset of rhetoric’ rather than a branch of natural philosophy or a craft.60 Thus, medicine had much to do with the art of verbal

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persuasion. The physician—lacking social status, scholarly training, and the protections of legal recognition—competed with ‘quacks and miracle workers … [and] could not afford to risk his reputation by treating patients who had no chance of recovery’.61 Physicians, therefore, had to persuade potential patients of their ability to effectively treat an illness. They did so by observing and recording symptoms through which the ‘history’ of a disease could be determined and its future course predicted. This was called prognosis, and was how a physician sought to win a patient’s trust.62 The exact nature of a medical complaint was discerned through diagnosis, which was ‘any determination of the type of affliction’.63 If an imbalance in humoral fluids was ascertained, ‘the physician sought to restore the proper balance by prescribing some rules for living’.64 I will suggest in this chapter’s third section that—following a similar pattern of observation, prognosis, diagnosis, and treatment—Constantine implied in the letter to Alexander and Arius that he was a sort of physician who could heal theological discord in the East.65 Prior to this, however, the next section examines ‘madness and reason’ imagery as it appears prominently in the earliest surviving examples of Constantine’s correspondence.

Constantine’s language of ‘madness and reason’ The most prevalent appearances of ‘madness and reason’ in Constantine’s written communications occurred between 313 and 324; as this section will show, he used this language to describe division and unity among Christians. Around 324, he also began to rely heavily on metaphors related to sickness and healing when addressing the same issue of ecclesiastical unity (or its lack). However, we should not assume a complete shift of emphasis or an absolute separation between these two emblematic pairs: medical imagery can be found prior to 324, while idioms related to madness and reason are still present after this date. For instance, ‘remedy’ and ‘heavenly medicine’ appear in Constantine’s letter to the Numidian bishops, which is dated to 330; while there is a mixture of both types of figurative speech in his letter to the churches concerning Easter shortly after the Council of Nicaea in 325.66 There are a few other occurrences of both forms appearing in the same document.67 Yet we can still distinguish between them in terms of Constantine’s application of each trope to specific aspects of the internal church disputes addressed in these letters. As this section and the next will demonstrate, ‘madness and reason’ language appears consistently in connection with Constantine’s calls for ecclesiastical uniformity in terms of church rites and organisational structures; at the same time, ‘sickness and healing’ imagery was used regarding the emperor’s appeals for ecclesiastical harmony or concord in matters of theological belief. ‘Madness’ as a metaphor appearing in Constantine’s letters had to do with persistent engagement in what the emperor perceived as divisive activity. This type of imagery first appears linked in surviving correspondence with an ecclesiastical disturbance just prior to the emperor’s intervention in the Donatist schism. Writing in winter 312–313 to notify Caecilian as bishop of Carthage of a large

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 107 financial grant for covering the expenses of certain clerics under his jurisdiction, Constantine referred explicitly to ‘madness’ (μανίᾳ) in connection with deviation from ‘the most holy and Catholic church’ (ἀγιωτάτης καὶ καθολικῆς ἐκκλησίας).68 The emperor closed this letter with mention of having learned that ‘certain ones of disordered mind’ (καὶ ἐπειδὴ ἐπυθόμην τινὰς μὴ καθεστώσης διανοίας) desired to turn Christians aside from the Catholic church.69 In this, he referred not to the Donatist schism—of which he was not yet aware—but to some sort of unrest affecting religious rather than ecclesiastical unity.70 The image of mental disorder appeared in association with an active desire on the part of unknown persons to distract common Christians from the worship of God. But when Constantine used μανία (‘madness’, ‘inspired frenzy’, or ‘enthusiasm’), it related to the active continuation of this desire on the part of some to persuade others to abandon the church. Those of ‘disordered mind’, according to Constantine, were the persons he believed responsible for initiating the disturbance, while the stronger term ‘madness’ applied to any of these who persisted in such activity. Between 313 and 330, the intensity of Constantine’s negative rhetoric escalated in response to the resistance of some Christians to his attempts to find a satisfactory and effective solution to the Donatist schism—from referring to this conflict as a serious matter to demonising those he deemed culpable for its continuation. Having received word from Anulinus that charges were pending against Caecilian by supporters of a rival bishop of Carthage, Constantine wrote in June 313 to inform the bishop of Rome (Miltiades) of a hearing to be held there to investigate and determine the right bishop in North Africa.71 The emperor’s first surviving direct reference to the issue described his view of the situation as an ‘exceedingly heavy’ (βαρὺ σφόδρα) matter. This indicated Constantine’s concern that discord among Christians interfered with the divine support on which he believed in accordance with imperial tradition that his life, rule, and the public welfare depended. Constantine’s anxiety on this account evidently increased when those supporting Majorinus instead of Caecilian appealed to the emperor after losing the verdict at Rome in 313. Constantine’s tone accordingly grew more hostile towards this ‘Donatist’ party in particular.72 Summoning the Council of Arles in a letter (dated spring 314) received by Chrestus, bishop of Syracuse, the emperor described the creation of ecclesiastical division as ‘cheap and perverted’ (φαύλως καὶ ἐνδιαστρόφως).73 The Greek adjective for ‘perverted’ connects closely with its verb form (διαστρέφω) suggesting a twisting or distortion of something that had existed previously in a more ideal shape. For Constantine, a ‘due state of religion and belief and brotherly concord’ (ὀφειλομένην θρῃσκείαν καὶ πίστιν ἀδελφικήν τε ὁμόνοιαν) was ‘perverted’ by schism among North African Christians and needed to be restored by the ‘united decree’ (ὁμόφρονος συνέσεως) of the Council of Arles.74 Around the same time, in his letter to ‘Aelafius’, the emperor characterised the schism in terms of ‘insane fury’ (vesano furore) and ‘empty accusations’ (vanis criminationibus) by both disputing parties in the schism.75 These images were applied in this letter to the initial separation: ‘insane fury’ signified excessive passion while the emptiness or vanity of mutual accusations indicated their lack of

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rational basis in the emperor’s view. But since this letter to Aelafius was written after the hearing at Rome, it is worth pointing out that these images show how Constantine later chose to recall his initial awareness of the dispute rather than indicating his perspective at the schism’s actual beginning.76 Such language was evoked by the persistence of excessive passion and irrational thinking (according to Constantine’s standards) that described the Donatists’ refusal to accept the decision of bishops gathered by imperial summons in order to proclaim the divine will. The emperor did not apply ‘madness’ symbolism impartially to both sides in the dispute; rather, he publicly supported the Caecilianists after the hearing at Rome.77 The figurative language in Constantine’s letters on the schism after this hearing and the Council of Arles continued emphasising ‘madness and reason’, and the intensity of such imagery escalated further. Writing shortly after Arles to both the Caecilianists (App. 5, dated late summer or early autumn 314) and the Donatists (App. 6, dated May 315), Constantine portrayed the latter in both documents as being of hard and obstinate mind.78 The Donatists’ ‘madness’ (vesania) was described by the emperor in the earlier document as abhorrent to heaven, and that Christ’s mercy had been justly withdrawn from them: But the right judgment did no good in their case, and the gracious divinity did not enter their senses; for, to speak the truth, the clemency of Christ has not undeservedly departed far from these in whom it is brightly clear that their madness is of such a kind that we perceive them as hateful even by heavenly providence; such a great madness persists in them when they persuade themselves with incredible arrogance.79 This is no slight excess of unrestrained passion described by the emperor in this passage, but a madness characterised by extraordinary hubris of a patently obvious sort (according to him) and abominable in the eyes of God. Furthermore, Constantine implied in a well-known line from App. 5 that the Donatists actually rejected Christ when they appealed both the decisions at Rome and Arles: They demand my judgment when I myself await the judgment of Christ. For I tell you the very truth itself that the judgment of the priests ought to be accounted as if the Lord himself were in the judge’s seat.80 This is a relatively rare instance in Constantine’s extant writings where the emperor did not appear to identify his own decision-making with that of the supreme God; significantly, he reserved that identification in this letter for the bishops whose ruling prevailed at Rome and were confirmed at Arles by a gathering of different episcopal composition. With reference to a well-known law of Constantine preserved in the Theodosian Code and propagated not long after this statement about episcopal judgement (23 June 318), John Noël Dillon suggests that the emperor’s ‘veneration’ for bishops led him to rely on them to hear some civil cases and describes such dependence as brash and naive.81 But given Constantine’s

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 109 interactions with bishops up to this point in his reign, which involved at least these two instances at Rome and Arles of the emperor’s expressed disappointment in their abilities to resolve their own internal controversies, it is hard to imagine any actual naivety or credulous awe figuring into either that particular law or this earlier statement equating episcopal and divine judgement. An alternative to reading this as a command inspired by credulous reverence that does not assume such unlikely attitudes on Constantine’s part might interpret the phrase ‘ought to be accounted’ (debet haberi) rather as a contrast between ideal and reality: while, according to the emperor, bishops should be able to make reliable judgements it is nevertheless evident that they cannot. Such an understanding of the line fits well with what immediately precedes and follows it in the last part of the letter, where Constantine expressed considerable exasperation at the disparity between ideal and reality. The force in the emperor’s rhetoric of madness continued to intensify finally to the point of demonising the Donatists. In a letter to the vicarius of Africa, Celsus (App. 7), Constantine described a Donatist named Maenalius as ‘caught up by insanity’ (susceperat insania). The same document shows that the emperor regarded the schism in terms of ‘sedition’ (seditionis) and his consequent warning that ‘without any doubt, [he] will cause [them] to suffer the due penalties of their madness and thoughtless obstinacy (insaniae suae obstinationisque temerariae)’.82 From here, Constantine’s language grew even fiercer when he relayed to Celsus his threat to ‘destroy and shatter’ (perdam atque discutiam) those failing to worship God with proper devotion by remaining in schism. The emperor’s declared hostility towards the Donatists finally reached the point of demonisation. In App. 5, he referred to the Donatists as having been contemptibly persuaded away from the true faith by the ‘malignity of the devil’ (malignitas diaboli).83 Then, he went on to describe in the same document their supposed ‘raging audacity of frenzied madness’ (rabida furoris audacia), and called them ‘officials of the devil’.84 Even after more than a decade of counselling Caecilianist bishops to patiently forebear with their opponents while also being occupied with theological controversy in the East, Constantine went so far in App. 10 (dated 5 February 330) as to depict the Donatists as ‘the devil’s party’ (diaboli partem) and even referring to them as ‘demon-possessed’ (diablo possessi) or as having ‘minds possessed by evil’ (possessus animas a malo).85 From treating internal ecclesiastical conflict in North Africa as an ‘exceedingly heavy’ matter to insulting, threatening, and even demonising the Donatists, this escalation in Constantine’s hostile language towards these Christians consistently characterised their perceived refusal to accept defeat in terms of madness. But what did such negative rhetoric disclose positively about his intentions regarding the accomplishment of ecclesiastical unity? As discussed earlier in this chapter, Constantine’s language of madness implied a vision of unity among Christians that conformed to the pattern of rational cosmic order established by the supreme God. The most complete surviving elaboration of the emperor’s cosmological rationalism is found in his Oration to the Assembly of the Saints: figurative language related to reason is prevalent, stated positively, and connected with

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themes of unity. His central theme in this speech was the rational intelligibility of a monotheistic universe in contrast to the chaos and violence resulting, in his view, from the traditional polytheistic outlook.86 Take this line, for example: ‘For he himself [the supreme God] is the origin of all created things; and the one who has his beginning from him has returned back to him, and the separation and combination is not of place but intellectually’.87 From a post-Nicene perspective, this contains theologically awkward language describing the Son as having a ‘beginning’ and ‘separation’ from the Father. It is not to my purpose to engage in theological analysis or evaluation of the extent to which Constantine may have been either ‘orthodox’ or ‘heretical’ in his views of the divine from the standpoint of post-Nicene Christianity. Even so, there still appears to be a difficulty in the emperor’s positing ‘one who received his beginning from’ the supreme God and ‘is united to him again’ in terms of the monotheistic viewpoint he argued for in this speech—until we recall the ambiguity of his overall religious messaging that could accommodate pagan as well as Christian monotheism.88 Constantine thus attempted to circumvent too detailed a theological critique of his words and any overly comprehensive assertions speculating beyond the capacity of depraved and debilitated human intellect.89 The point he nevertheless wanted to get across throughout the speech was that he shared the Christians’ rejection of the polytheistic worldview on rational grounds: cosmic order and unity argued for the supremacy of one God, otherwise (the emperor reasoned) the whole universe would descend into chaos if its constituent parts were governed by mutually competing divinities. Thus, Constantine held that intelligible cosmic unity was characterised by reason originating in divine wisdom. Right thinking, which should be consistent with observable reality and the principles of reason, ought to lead anyone (in the emperor’s view) to conclude that God is one since only chaos and violence would result from a plurality of divine powers filling the cosmos to bursting with their numbers, competition, envy, and greed.90 The lives of human beings who professed to worship the one supreme God, Creator of this ordered universe, ought to be characterised by similar qualities of moderation and rational behaviour.91 Constantine used language of madness, stupidity, and the absurd in this speech to describe what he viewed as the irrational thinking of polytheists who resisted the divinely revealed, inherently rational truth of monotheism. The emperor demonstrated his biblical knowledge by summarising the scriptural narrative concerning the Holy Spirit’s work through the prophets to reveal the right form of worship, which belonged only to the one God who gave all things their first cause: that prophetic message was always resisted, however, and the ‘light of truth’ was maligned while the ‘plausible claim of darkness was embraced’ (διαβεβλημένη μὲν πρὸς τὸ τῆς ἀληθείας φῶς, ἀσπαζομέν δὲ τὸ δυσέλεγκτον τοῦ σκότους).92 Thus, certain beliefs or activities might seem reasonable, but were not necessarily so in reality. Constantine claimed that violent collusion between prior emperors and the ‘mindless onslaught’ of the populace against Christians was driven by such resistance to divine truth.93 Such cooperation in ignorance culminated in ‘this untimely madness’ (ἀκαίρου μανίας αὕτη) that was a ‘cause of the greatest

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 111 evils to the people of the time’—referring to empire-wide persecution introduced under Diocletian supposedly resulting in civil war.94 This basic pattern, of rational divine truth resisted by human violence producing chaos, continued throughout Constantine’s speech. However, Jesus Christ, the Logos, identified as ‘God and child of God’ was ‘duly revered by the most percipient and intelligent nations and peoples … [and forgave] humans for their foolish thoughts, reckoning folly and error intrinsic to humanity’.95 Thus, ‘the Son of God summon[ed] all to virtue’, which Constantine defined as a moderate life according to the principles of reason, avoiding the irrational impulses of passion and desire: ‘For the heart is not a little roused to anger, and appetite acts with violence, and whenever they get the better of reason they overthrow the senseless’.96 But when reason prevailed, ‘like some good charioteer, pull[ing] on the reins of its disorderly and demented team’, then one’s whole life would be moderate and praiseworthy.97 In Christian terms, such moderation had the character of forbearance: ‘to choose to be injured rather than to injure, and when it is necessary, to suffer evil rather than to do it’.98 Constantine’s commitment to such a vision of reasoned moderation in a coherently unified and monotheistic cosmic system helps explain his response to the dispute in North Africa. The issue at stake, as far as the emperor was concerned, had to do with a matter of organisational discord that demonstrated that some of God’s worshippers were divided against one another—an absurd and foolish circumstance he understood as contrary to a rationally ordered cosmos created and governed by the same unitary deity. Constantine believed that since there was only one God, then there could only be a single group of worshippers who did so rightly by following the same institutional practices (such as electing a single bishop of Carthage, not two at the same time who were mutually antagonistic). The conflict’s deeper theological issues, such as its implications for episcopal authority and sacramental validity, were apparently left by the emperor for the bishops themselves to determine: our evidence never shows Constantine having said anything to address these aspects of the schism, supposing he was either aware of or concerned with them.99 Rather, it was the continued existence of two competing and mutually exclusive ‘bodies of Christians’ that Constantine found intolerable.100 By what rites and customs of which church governed by which bishop could divine blessing be assured? On that basis, which church could rightly expect the emperor’s patronage? How could Constantine support and protect two institutional visions of Christians that were reciprocally opposed to each another? How could the emperor rule effectively while allowing a divisive disturbance to continue after involving himself in two attempts to resolve it? For these reasons, it was vital that a consistent unanimity of ecclesiastical order and discipline be agreed upon by the bishops and respected among the churches. Constantine initially defined his expectations for the schism’s resolution in terms of restored ‘brotherly concord’, which might have left space for differences so long as communion was maintained.101 But as the conflict in North Africa persisted and the intensity of Constantine’s hostile language increased, he came to expect (and perhaps, but not certainly, enforced with violence) a single, uniform ecclesiastical organisation conforming to the principles of reason that he believed were

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inherent in the divine order. The escalating aggression in the emperor’s rhetoric both revealed the seriousness with which he viewed the failure of his efforts to end the schism and underlined his explicit identification of the particular faction he deemed responsible. Even so, the same vision of an ordered, monotheistic cosmos in which right-thinking human beings behaved sensibly and with moderation allowed Constantine to act with forbearance—promoting and pursuing ‘patience’ towards the Donatists—in spite of the increasingly violent tone in his words.

Constantine’s language of ‘sickness and healing’ Along with his language of madness and reason, Constantine began applying figurative imagery related to sickness and healing to his calls for unity around the time of his final confrontation with Licinius. The first appearance of medical imagery in our surviving evidence occurs as early as the year 321 in his letter to the ‘Catholic’ bishops and Christians in Africa when he encouraged these Caecilianists to wait patiently for divine vindication against their Donatist opponents. After claiming that he had done all he could in the best possible manner to ‘have maintained all concord’ (stabilita omnem concordiam teneretur), the emperor acknowledged failure while blaming repeated appeals by the Donatists.102 By this time, Constantine’s known efforts included verbal communication, ordering an episcopal hearing, summoning an actual council of bishops, confiscating Donatist-owned property, and decreeing prior policies of forbearance. Additionally, anti-Donatist violence had occurred whether or not the emperor directly ordered or turned a blind eye to it. None of these methods were effective in their object of resolving the conflict. For these reasons, Constantine continued, we ought to expect the remedy (remedium) from him to whom all good prayers and deeds are repaid. And while the actual heavenly medicine (caelestis medicina) goes forth, our counsel must be moderated to the extent that we cultivate patience.103 Remedium was commonly used as a metaphor signifying the restoration of an ideal condition after its loss or distortion, and the emperor applied the image here in this sense to resolving the schism.104 Taking the whole letter into account, this ‘remedy’ and ‘heavenly medicine’ should be understood in terms of Constantine ordering Caecilianist Christians not to retaliate against any offense by their Donatist opponents. Compliance with this policy, according to the emperor, would obtain for Caecilianists the same worth in God’s eyes as the suffering of martyrs, and their adversaries’ contentiousness would lose its power. Constantine knew there was no suitable alternative except to work within his earlier approach of patience, which had directed the Caecilianists after Arles in late 314 to give their opponents the opportunity of mending their ways and pray on his behalf for divine mercy.105 Roughly six years later, the only strategy still available to him was to adapt this policy, or at least to do so in his public utterances, so that he claimed he would practice the same forbearance expected of his Caecilianist

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 113 subjects.106 He reminded them of divine judgement and their own non-aggressive ethic, urging them to endure any further efforts against them with the patient character of Christian martyrs.107 The last surviving letter of Constantine related to the Donatist schism, dated to the year 330, emphasised (in exchange for Caecilianist forbearance) the prospect of God’s wrath exacting a more severe penalty on the Donatists than episcopal or imperial action could execute.108 Following Constantine’s letter in 321 to the Caecilianists, images of sickness and healing begin to appear more prominently in the emperor’s communications after his victory over Licinius in 324. Though ‘madness and reason’ symbolism prevails in the letters addressed to the provincials of Palestine and those of the East, Constantine used medical imagery in both of these documents to declare his own role in establishing imperial and religious unity in his newly won territories.109 The emperor claimed that as agent of the supreme God his rule entailed divine healing, which he understood in terms of ‘restoration’ by uniting the empire under his sole administration. Under previous regimes, according to Constantine, persecution and civil war had placed the whole empire at ‘risk of being utterly destroyed from a sort of pestilential disease and [which had] need of much saving medical treatment’.110 The image of ‘pestilential disease’ pointed to the breaking up of the empire due to Diocletian’s imperial system having collapsed into civil war. Each of those involved—Diocletian, Maximian, Galerius, Severus, Maxentius, Daia, and Licinius—had allegedly proved unworthy of empire, with the exception of Constantine alone who pointed to their deaths as divine judgement on polytheism and actions taken against Christianity.111 The Roman world needed a life-saving remedy, so to speak, at the hands of God who therefore ordained Constantine’s rise in order to bring the empire under a single emperor’s rule. Claiming to be amazed at and grateful for his divine election, which was demonstrated by his victories, he declared that his advance into the eastern provinces represented a ‘greater cure’ for the ‘graver matters’ that oppressed them.112 Constantine, in using such comparative terminology as ‘graver … greater’, referred to his own view of the difference between eastern and western provinces. The whole empire had known so-called tyranny under those predecessors whom Constantine denounced, but the West had also known the relatively benign rule of Constantine and his father before him in addition to Maximian, Severus, and Maxentius. Christians in the East, by contrast, had suffered considerably more under Diocletian, Galerius, Daia, and Licinius. Whatever acts of Licinius also constituted ‘graver misfortune’ in Constantine’s estimation, the newly victorious emperor declared that the ‘greater cure’ he extended to the eastern provinces meant putting an end to nearly four decades of shared rule (however uneasily or violently) after Diocletian’s original grant of imperial power to Maximian. Constantine’s immediate business in providing ‘saving medical treatment’ to the empire was represented in the specific policies outlined in the letter to the Palestinian provincials. He decreed restitution for all who had experienced loss on account of their religion under any of his immediate predecessors (including Licinius, counted here among the persecuting emperors).113 Exiles, prisoners, and those condemned to harsh labour were to be restored to their homes, loved ones,

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and peaceful lives of leisure.114 Those forcibly divested of military or noble rank were likewise to have their former positions restored—in the case of the military, these persons were also permitted to remain in retirement by accepting honourable discharges.115 Anyone deprived of free status would be released from slavery.116 Lastly, Constantine upheld the provision in his early agreement with Licinius that property should be returned, with any necessary restitution to be covered by the imperial treasury.117 In gratitude for the benefits of Constantine’s rule as it now encompassed the whole empire, every subject in the East was exhorted to join those in the West in acknowledging one emperor and worshipping one God.118 Having presented such policies under his sole rule as indicative of the means by which he intended to deliver life-saving care to the empire, Constantine also portrayed himself as the agent of divine healing in his letter to the eastern provincials. The document begins similarly to the letter to his subjects in Palestine with the claim that all right-thinking people would acknowledge the supreme God, and proceeds to distinguish Constantine from his predecessors.119 The letter then outlines general policies (in the form of a prayer to the supreme God) for promoting the peaceful co-existence of all in these eastern territories: the particular focus is on unity around the theme of religion. Christianity was the favoured form of divine worship, yet traditional religion continued to be tolerated. Having invoked the supreme God at the beginning of his ‘prayer’, Constantine wrote: ‘Be gentle and kindly disposed to your people in the East, to all your provincials who for a long time have been crushed under misfortune, and extend healing (ἴασιν) through me your servant’.120 The indicated meaning of ‘healing’ in the use of ἴασιν included ideas of ‘mending’ or ‘repair’, and entailed the need to restore unity in eastern and western parts of the empire following the most recent era of civil wars and anti-Christian repression that Constantine presented as ended by victory over Licinius. He re-iterated his declared status as divinely chosen on the evidence of his unbroken streak of military success, and proclaimed that his own act of gratitude for such heavenly favour was to take upon himself the work of restoring the worship of God.121 He also re-affirmed his long-time commitment to protect and support Christians, while reminding them that they were to live peacefully with the rest of Roman society.122 Writing that he desired ‘[God’s] people’ (σου τὸν λαὸν) to remain united and at peace, this epithet applied to all Roman subjects—or at least all who acknowledged the supreme God—as well as particular religious communities such as Jews or Christians who traditionally understood themselves as ‘people of God’.123 Constantine hoped to persuade others—through official policy as well as verbal arguments—to acknowledge the God worshipped with due order and discipline by Christians. Yet, only the emperor’s expressed will for a general concord that did not punish dissent against his promotion of Christianity carried the force of law in this letter.124 We find this policy stated for the second time towards the end of the document, where Constantine wrote: ‘So far as he is concerned who prevents himself from being cured (θεραπεύεσθαι), he is not to reckon it to another; for the healing power of medicines (ἰατρικὴ τῶν ἰαμάτῶν) is set in place, set visibly before all’.125 Here, the medical metaphors connect

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 115 specifically with religion. The ‘cure’ referred to the emperor’s desired recognition by his subjects of the supreme God. Any who held themselves aloof from this prescribed remedy for the disasters and discord connected by Constantine with polytheism—that is, those who continued to maintain their traditional beliefs and practices—were alone to blame for any negative consequences. The truth—that there was one supreme God who governed the cosmos according to the principles of reason and order, and who now granted his favour on the empire in the rule of one victorious emperor—was obvious enough to everyone who would acknowledge it. This ‘truth’ is what Constantine meant with respect to the ‘healing power of medicines’, and it was ‘set visibly before all’ in the fact that he alone now ruled as conqueror and supreme Augustus (Victor … Maximus Augustus, the imperial title he began using in correspondence after 324). The emperor may have anticipated the possibility that his language of blame directed towards those who kept their traditional religious observances could be received in two ways he did not intend, and the letter ends with his attempt to clarify that general concord rather than universal conformity was his true aim. The first mistaken interpretation of his words would have been to fear official reprisal by force, thus Constantine made it clear that any who did not freely accept his ‘cure’ by acknowledging his unifying ‘truth’ need not fear that it would be so enforced. Secondly, the emperor’s words might be wrongly taken as justification for violent retaliation by Christians and their supporters in response to the end of persecution and perhaps a growing sense of their own influence. Therefore, Constantine emphasised here at the end of his letter that there would be no violent coercion in matters of religion.126 But around the same time (late autumn/early winter 324) that such strategies for unity were disseminated to the eastern provinces, the emperor’s attention was diverted once more to the problem of ecclesiastical conflict throughout the same regions. The widening theological disputes that centred, relatively speaking, on views associated with Alexander and Arius seem to have interrupted Constantine’s plans to tour his newly won territories after having founded his new capital at Byzantium to commemorate victory over Licinius. The emperor mentioned this disruption of his journey, and claimed that he had hoped to enlist the aid of eastern bishops in resolving the Donatist schism, in his subsequent letter to Alexander and Arius.127 In the same document, Constantine alleged to have suffered a ‘grave wound’(τραῦμα καίριον) upon learning of the situation among Christians in the East, particularly in Egypt.128 The emperor also asserted his view that the problems of division were of a more serious nature here than he had been dealing with North Africa for the previous decade. In fact, he wrote that ‘[the East] from which [he] had hoped a cure would be apportioned to others, now [stood] in need of greater healing’.129 Thus, for the second time in as many years, Constantine referred to a ‘graver’ problem in the East that required a ‘greater cure’ or ‘greater healing’.130 This had applied in the earlier instance to imperial and religious unity: ending the twin disasters of civil war and religious persecution by uniting the provinces in the worship of one God under one emperor.131 Now, a ‘graver’ division calling for ‘greater healing’ pertained to ecclesiastical unity. Here, the ‘graver’ division was not merely in reference to the dispute between Alexander and Arius, but

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also included the Meletian schism.132 Constantine therefore confronted divisions among eastern Christians on both theological and institutional levels. Combined with the Donatist schism in the West as well as scattered and long-standing differences regarding the date for celebrating Easter, he faced the prospect of ecclesiastical discord on multiple levels throughout the whole empire.133 At the risk of anachronism, it can be suggested that Constantine—when speaking of ‘greater healing’ in this letter and with the presumably genuine notion in his mind of eastern bishops addressing division among western Christians—may already have been contemplating a larger synod with broader representation. It is likely that, at the very least, the emperor understood the need for addressing these issues of ecclesiastical conflict in a comprehensive way. Thus, in matters of both ecclesiastical and religious unity, Constantine described himself as an agent of divine healing. The emperor’s explicit self-description in this letter is actually as a ‘ruler of peace’ (εἰρήνης πρύτανιν) between Alexander and Arius, which may be understood as a ‘judge’ or ‘mediator’.134 The figurative language in this letter implicitly places the emperor in the position of a ‘physician’. Constantine attempted to persuade Alexander and Arius that unity would be restored if they and their respective partisans throughout the East would heed his advice. I suggest that such persuasion was practiced by the emperor in this letter by means of a process involving observation, prognosis, diagnosis, and treatment advice just as performed by physicians in classical antiquity. While Horstmanshoff’s description of the ancient physician does not appear applicable to any Roman emperor, what matters in light of a close reading of Constantine’s words is the reality that potential patients had to be convinced of a healer’s ability to treat effectively a particular illness. Drawing out the medical imagery present in this letter, the emperor extended the metaphor to describe his own role as the uniquely qualified authority capable of bringing the disagreement between Arius and Alexander to an end. Speaking of his prior experience with ecclesiastical division, Constantine described to Arius and Alexander his intention of enlisting eastern clergy to assist in the restoration of ecclesiastical unity in North Africa: Since an unbearable madness seized Africa because of the ones who have dared to divide the religion of the people into different sects, and I for my part wished to restrain this disease, the only other cure sufficient for the matter I have found, when I had driven out the empire’s common enemy who set his own unlawful judgment against your holy synods, was to send some of you to help towards concord those condemning one another.135 It is worth noting the ‘madness’ language used here in direct reference to the North African schism, as well as the immediate transition to medical imagery. Although ‘disease’ was applied here to the schism, the ‘cure’ metaphor appeared precisely in connection with Constantine’s contemplated activity in enlisting eastern bishops to help resolve the breach in fellowship among North African Christians. If the emperor did indeed have such plans, he may have summoned bishops from

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 117 anywhere in the East in order to address a situation to which bishops in the western dioceses of Africa, Gaul, and Italy had proved unequal because of their failure in reaching definitive solutions at Rome and Arles. More likely, however, these eastern bishops would have been drawn from Egypt itself and sent into the neighbouring diocese. The latter possibility involved covering a shorter distance requiring less expense than mobilising bishops from other eastern regions. But it also had the potential rhetorical effect of ‘shaming’ those who were themselves divided when their emperor ostensibly looked to them for aid in restoring unity in another part of the empire (whether or not Constantine ever seriously considered any such strategy). Perhaps wisely, the emperor neither claimed success nor failure in relation to the troubles in North African Christianity but simply pointed to his prior experience: ecclesiastical division by now was nothing to him. This part of his letter can be read as a physician’s attempt to win the trust of potential clients on the basis that he had encountered their type of disease before. Thus, Constantine’s next step in this letter was to inform Alexander and Arius that he had investigated the origins of the argument between them, which may be read according to the principles of prognosis and diagnosis as implying that, as a physician, the emperor had studied their symptoms and discovered their cause.136 At this point, two important rhetorical moves are made in the letter. First, Constantine is shown contrasting his evaluation of the problem’s nature as very serious with his estimation of its cause as minor. He wrote immediately after referring to the ‘grave wound’ inflicted by the news of their dispute that ‘indeed as I considered carefully the origin and pretext of these things, the alleged cause was discovered to be very worthless and in no wise worthy of so much eager rivalry’.137 Such differentiation initiated his process in the remaining parts of the letter of leading Alexander and Arius to minimise their differences and instead seek common ground with urgency. This was also a physician’s assurance that despite the seriousness of the disease, its cause was of an easily treatable nature: ecclesiastical unity could be restored by their mutual acceptance of blame and forgiving one another.138 This led directly into Constantine’s second rhetorical move by which he re-emphasised urgency in addressing the disturbance while presenting himself as one who prescribed good advice for treating it. Having diagnosed the source of the problem for which he held Arius and Alexander equally at fault, the emperor’s advised method for healing required both mutual forgiveness and a halt to public theological speculation.139 Constantine’s self-presentation as a physician to Alexander and Arius differed considerably from his earlier approach concerning the Donatist schism when he had declared his legally binding will in terms of how God’s blessing on the empire ought to be maintained. This change in the emperor’s verbal strategy shows that he had probably come to anticipate some level of resistance by at least one of the disputing Christian factions, and tried to forestall such opposition by exchanging coercion for persuasion. His accompanying adjustment in metaphors for division and unity also indicates that he understood the situations among Christians in North Africa and centred in Egypt as essentially distinct types of ecclesiastical

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conflict requiring different degrees of unity. However, the metaphors appear to be somewhat mixed as they are applied in two imperial letters dating from shortly after the Council of Nicaea in 325.140 For example, Constantine used both pairs of imagery in reference to the Jews in his letter (addressed to the churches generally) that described and reacted to Nicaea’s decision concerning the proper time at which all Christians ought to celebrate Easter. The emperor relayed the Council’s ruling that the season for commemorating Christ’s Passion ought to occur at the same time everywhere, rather than as previously (and subsequently) with different dates observed primarily in the East and West.141 According to Constantine, the Christian celebration of Jesus’ death by following the customs of those believed culpable for eliminating him was inappropriate and offensive: any Christian who followed Jewish practice likewise imitated their madness.142 ‘Such blood-stained men’, wrote the emperor, ‘are mentally blind as one might expect … [having] taken leave of their senses, and … moved not by any rational principle, but by uncontrolled impulse wherever their internal frenzy may lead them … sick with fearful error’.143 The ‘madness and reason’ imagery is clear here, but the letter also refers to the Jews as ‘sick with fearful error’. This is a sickness of the mind rather than of the body itself, and thus the metaphor has more to do with madness as unrestrained passion and disregard for reason. Such images of madness and reason appear in connection with an organisational matter—the determination of the proper date for observing Easter—that received an episcopal decision establishing a uniform practice.144 At first glance, Constantine’s letter to the Catholic church of Alexandria does not appear to involve either type of metaphor that we have been studying in this chapter.145 However, medical imagery appears towards the beginning of this letter in which the emperor urged unity among Christians in Alexandria following Nicaea’s repudiation of Arius’ views. Here, Constantine exulted in the ‘[dissipation] at the command of God those dissensions, schisms, tumults, and so to speak, deadly poisons (θανάσιμα φάρμακα) of discord’.146 The word used here for ‘poison’ (φάρμακον) is the same Greek word for ‘medicine’ or ‘drug’. Thus, while discord in the emperor’s estimation was a ‘deadly poison’ it is clear from other examples of his correspondence that restored concord was represented as the ‘medicine’ or ‘drug’ that delivered ‘saving medical treatment’ to the churches.147 This letter in which φάρμακα appears was centred not on a matter of institutional order, such as in the letter following the same Council on the subject of Easter, but on informing the Alexandrian church of the Council’s decision (and its ratification by Constantine) on the theological issue involving Arius.148 The phrase ‘one and the same faith’ (μίαν καὶ τὴν αὐτὴν … πίστιν) in this document should therefore be interpreted in light of other letters where medical imagery appears in direct relation to the emperor’s explicit arguments favouring a type of unity that allowed room for a certain amount of theological flexibility rather than pushing for a strict uniformity of belief.149

Conclusion The analysis in this chapter of how Constantine used metaphors involving themes of ‘madness and reason’ and ‘sickness and healing’ brings further clarity to what

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 119 he intended concerning ecclesiastical unity between 313 and 325 in terms of institutional uniformity and theological concord. Viewing the Donatist schism as a matter of division over these churches’ rites and organisational practices, Constantine appealed to his own sense of cosmic rationalism in order to summon the Donatists—whose faction he had determined in the wrong due to their apparent inability or unwillingness to accept the decisions of two episcopal assemblies that had exonerated their Caecilianist rivals—back to what he believed constituted right thinking and moderation. Such conformity with the rational order as the emperor conceived of it necessarily required compliance according to a single, uniform standard of practice. Since, according to Constantine, it was (or ought to be) manifestly evident to all intelligent and right-thinking people that there was only one God, then it should logically follow that there could only be a single communion of His worshippers. The existence of two competing and mutually exclusive factions of Christians in North Africa, in which each claimed at the same time to be that single ‘Catholic’ communion, was a patent absurdity and an affront to the reverent worship that imperial tradition (modified by Constantine’s identification of the God of Christianity with the ‘supreme God’) deemed vital to obtaining divine favour and legitimacy. It was, in the emperor’s view, sheer ‘madness’ that such divisions persisted because of the Donatists’ refusal to accept the decisions of two episcopal gatherings that ultimately supported their opponents. Constantine adapted his rhetorical approach to incorporate medical imagery of sickness and healing around the time of his victory over Licinius in 324, when he became sole ruler of the Roman Empire and (almost at the same time) learned of considerably widespread rifts in fellowship over matters of belief among Christians in his new eastern territories. Such related metaphors were used by the emperor as he communicated his intentions and policies geared towards uniting the whole empire under his authority. When confronting ecclesiastical conflict in Egypt, which had spread among churches throughout the East, Constantine viewed this as centring on issues of Christian beliefs rather than institutions. He employed medical imagery in his initial contact with Alexander and Arius, who each represented two of the opposing parties, in order to persuade them to restore their communion for the good of all. Where theological differences increased in their intensity out of proportion with their significance, as Constantine understood it, the resulting breach of fellowship would be best remedied if both sides agreed to follow the emperor’s instructive advice by sharing blame, forgiving one another, and re-affirming their filial bond as fellow Christians. Christians were to minimise any differences between them concerning details and speculation and preserve communion according to what they held in common when publicly articulating their faith—the most basic of which in Constantine’s view were the one-ness of God and Christ as Saviour. However, not all Christians could be so persuaded, and resistance to Constantine’s ecclesiastical policies continued throughout the remaining years of his reign. Thus, as proved to be the case with divine favour and agency, Constantine’s doctrine of ecclesiastical unity alone did not sufficiently enable an imperial resolution to the issues that continued to divide Christians.

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Notes 1 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.27.2–2.29.1: τὴν ἐμὴν ὑπηρεσίαν πρὸς τὴν ἑαυτοῦ βούλησιν ἐπιτηδείαν ἐζήτησέν τε καὶ ἔκρινεν, ὃς ἀπὸ τῆς πρὸς Βρεττανοῖς ἐκείνης θαλλάσσης ἀρξάμενος καὶ τῶν μερῶν, ἔνθα δύεσθαι τὸν ἥλιον ἀνάγκῃ τινὶ τέτακται κρείττονι, ἀπωθούμενος καὶ διασκεδαννὺς τὰ κατέχοντα πάντα δεινά, ἵν' ἅμα μὲν ἀνακαλοῖτο γένος τὴν περὶ τὸν σεμνότατον νόμον θεραπείαν τῇ παρ’ ἐμοῦ παιδευόμενον ὐπουργίᾳ, ἅμα δὲ ἡ μακαριστὴ πίστις αὔξοιτο ὑπὸ χειραγωγῷ τῷ κρείττονι. (οὐδέποτε γὰρ ἂν ἀγνώμων περὶ τὴν ὀφειλομένην γενοίμην χάριν, ταύτη ἀρίστην διακονίαν, τοῦτο κεχαρισμένον ἐμαυτῷ δῶρον πιστεύσας), μέχρι καὶ τῶν ἑῴων πρόειμι χωρίων, ἃ βαρυτέραις κατεχόμενα συμφοραῖς μείζονα καὶ τὴν παρ’ ἡμῶν θεραπείαν ἐπεβοᾶτο. 2 Timothy Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981), 70–72. For other views on Licinius’later policies towards Christians, see Harold A. Drake, Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), 236–237; David Potter, Constantine the Emperor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 210–211. 3 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.42; cf. 2.24–2.29.1. 4 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.48–52, 2.55, 2.57–58. 5 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.55.1–2. 6 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.56.1. 7 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.56. On concord as I use the term, see Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, The Making of Christian Empire: Lactantius and Rome (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000), 110–114. 8 On monotheism and unity, see Arnaldo Momigliano, ‘The Disadvantage of Monotheism for a Universal State’, Classical Philology 81:3 (October 1986), 285–297; Øyvind Norderval, ‘The Emperor Constantine and Arius: Unity and the Church and Unity in the Empire’, Studia Theologica 42:1 (1988), 113–150; Garth Fowden, Empire to Commonwealth: Consequences of Monotheism in Late Antiquity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 37–60, 80–99. 9 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.22: τὸ καὶ τούτους αὐτοὺς δελφικὴν καὶ ὁμόφονα ὀφείλοντας ἔχειν ὁμψυχίαν αἰσχρῶς, μᾶλλον δὲ μυσερῶς λλήλων ποδιεστάναι. 10 Opt. App. 3, 5, 6, 7, 9. 11 Opt., App. 10: Cum summi dei, qui huius mundi auctor et pater est … hanc voluntatem esse constet, ut omne humanum genus in commune consentiat et quodam societatis affectu quasi mutuis amplexibus glutinetur, non dubium est haeresis et schisma a diabolo, qui caput est malitiae, processisse. 12 For example, see Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 53–61, 212–244; Alistair Kee, Constantine versus Christ: The Triumph of Ideology (London: SCM Press, 1982), 102–114; Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 155–156, 192–272; Raymond Van Dam, The Roman Revolution of Constantine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 256–282; Jonathan Bardill, Constantine: Divine Emperor of the Christian Golden Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 271–275, 290–299. 13 Norderval, ‘Constantine and Arius’, 113–150. 14 Richard Lim, ‘Religious Disputation and Social Order in Late Antiquity’, Historia 44:2 (1995), 204–231 at 218. See also Clifford Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 131–205. 15 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.24; Vit. Const. 2.56, 2.65, 2.66, 2.72.3, 3.20.2, 3.60.2, 3.60.9, and 4.42.1. 16 Urk. 27.13, 32.3, 32.4 (twice); Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 62.5, 70.2. 17 Opt., App. 3, 7, and 9. 18 Aur. Vict., Caes. 40; Eutr. 10.2; Zos. 2.8, 2.29.

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 121 19 For this ‘pagan vision’, see Pan. Lat. 6.21.3–7. Much depends on one’s interpretation of the Latin as pointed out in C.E.V. Nixon and Barbara Saylor Rodgers, In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini: Introduction, Translation and Commentary (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 250n91–93. See also Barbara Saylor Rodgers, ‘Constantine’s Pagan Vision’, Byzantion 50:1 (1980), 259–278. 20 Pan. Lat. 6.1.4–5. 21 On pagan-Christian relations in the Roman Empire until Constantine’s death, see Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt: Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der Neueren Forschung, Band 2 (Hildegard Temporini and Wolfgang Haase, eds.; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1980); Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity (Polymnia Athanassiadi and Michael Frede, eds.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002); Robin Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians in the Mediterranean World from the Second Century A.D. to the Conversion of Constantine (2nd edn.; New York: Penguin, 2006); Monotheism between Pagans and Christians in Late Antiquity (Stephen Mitchell and Peter Van Nuffelen, eds.; Leuven: Peeters Press, 2010); Christopher P. Jones, Between Pagan and Christian (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2014); Mark Edwards, Religions of the Constantinian Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015); Pagans and Christians in Late Antique Rome: Conflict, Competition, and Coexistence in the Fourth Century (Michele Renee Salzman, Marianne Sághy, and Rita Lizzi Testa, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016); Religious Violence in the Ancient World: From Classical Athens to Late Antiquity (Jitse H.F. Dijkstra and Christian R. Raschle, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020). For Jewish-Christian relations, see Jacob Neusner, Judaism and Christianity in the Age of Constantine: History, Messiah, Israel, and the Initial Confrontation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007 [1987]); Apologetics in the Roman Empire: Pagans, Jews, and Christians (Mark Edwards, Martin Goodman and Simon Price with Christopher Rowland, eds.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999); Jews, Christians, and the Roman Empire: The Poetics of Power in Late Antiquity (Natalie B. Dohrmann and Annette Yoshiko Reed, eds.; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013). 22 Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 91. On this point, it should be noted that Drake does not imply that Roman religion was an organised, creed-based system such as Christianity was becoming. 23 Concordia appears three times and is the most frequently used word communicating ideas of unity in the imperial documents attached to the work of Optatus (App., 3, 7, 9). Ὁμόνοια makes nine appearances in Greek translations of the Constantinian documents preserved by Eusebius. See Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.24; Vit. Const. 2.56, 2.65, 2.66, 2.72.3, 3.20.2, 3.60.2, 3.60.9, and 4.42.1. Ἐιρήνη (‘peace’) and μία (‘one’) appear with greater frequency but are used similarly in these contexts to ὁμόνοια and associated words indicating unity, harmony, or agreement. For example, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.56, 2.71. 24 See Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.20. The word σχίσμα appears here in close connection with a form of στάσις (‘faction, sedition, discord’). This latter term appeared twice in the letter to Alexander and Arius. See Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.2, 2.71.5. Στάσις also appears three times in Eusebius’ paraphrase of Constantine’s speech at Nicaea, possibly suggesting the bishop of Caesarea’s echoing of the emperor’s terminology. See Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.12.2–5. 25 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18–7.2; Opt., App. 3, 5, 7, 10; Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.65.2–68.1, 2.72.1–3. 26 For instances in addition to those mentioned forthwith, see App., B Civ. 2.25, 2.124– 125, 2.130–37, 2.137; Caes., BCiv. 1.7; Cass. Dio 46.16, 50.7. 27 App., B Civ. 1.57.1. Translation by Horace White in Appian: Roman History, Vol. 3: The Civil Wars, Books 1–3.26 (LCL; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1913). 28 App., B Civ. 2.19–20.

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29 App., B Civ. 2.111; Suet., Caes. 76–80. 30 Augustus, Res Gestae, 1, 7–8, 34. 31 Suet., Tib. 50. Suetonius related the incident to affirm his criticism of Tiberius as disloyal toward and hateful of his family. 32 Suet., Vesp. 8. 33 Cass. Dio 74.1. 34 Cass. Dio 74.10. 35 On these emperors and the general political/military situation during the third century, see Crises and the Roman Empire: Proceedings of the Seventh Workshop of the International Network: Impact of Empire, Nijmegen, June 20–24, 2006 (Olivier Hekster, Gerda de Kleijn, and Daniëlle Slootjes, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2007); Inge Mennen, Power and Status in the Roman Empire, A.D. 193–284 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 21–48, 193–254; Clifford Ando, Imperial Rome A.D. 193–284: The Critical Century (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012); Adrastos Omissi, Emperors and Usurpers in the Later Roman Empire: Civil War, Panegyric, and the Construction of Legitimacy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018); Lukas de Blois, Image and Reality of Roman Imperial Power in the Third Century A.D.: The Impact of War (Abingdon: Routledge, 2019). See also p. 89n23 in this volume. 36 Eutr. 9.13; Hist. Aug., Aurel. 32.1–3. On the Gallic empire, see Ingemar König, Die gallischen Usurpatoren von Postumus bis Tetricus (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1981); John F. Drinkwater, The Gallic Empire: Separatism and Continuity in the North-Western Provinces of the Roman Empire, A.D. 260–274 (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1987). On the Palmyrene empire, see Richard Stoneman, Palmyra and Its Empire: Zenobia’s Revolt against Rome (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1994); Udo Hartmann, Das palmyrenische Teilreich (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2001); Andrew M. Smith II, Roman Palmyra: Identity, Community, and State Formation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); Nathanael J. Andrade, Zenobia: Shooting Star of Palmyra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021). 37 On these reforms and the problems addressed, see William Seston, Dioclétién et la tétrarchie: Guerres et réformes, 284–300 (Paris: De Boccard, 1946; Frank Kolb, Diocletian und die Tetrarchie (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1987); Stephen Williams, Diocletian and the Roman Recovery (London: Routledge, 2000); Roger Rees, Diocletian and the Tetrarchy (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004). 38 Collatio Mosaicarum 15.3: ut igitur stirpitus amputari lues haec nequitiae de saeculo beatissimo nostro possit, devotio tua iussis ac statutis tranquillitatis nostrae maturet obsecundare. Text and translation by Moses Hyamson in Mosaicarum et romanarum legum collatio (London: Oxford University Press, 1913), 130–132. For a more recent and slightly modified English translation, see Manichaean Texts from the Roman Empire (Iain Gardner and Samuel N.C. Lieu, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 116–118. For the latest critical edition, see Robert M. Frakes, Compiling the Collatio Legum Mosaicarum et Romanarum in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 39 For text, see Diokletians Preisedikt (Siegfried Lauffer, ed.; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1971), 90–211. 40 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24–27.1, 2.48–53. 41 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.55.1. 42 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.56, 2.59–60. 43 Lactant., De mort. pers. 15.6–7. 44 Lactant., De mort. pers. 24.9. 45 Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.2; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.2–4. 46 Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.2–6. 47 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24–42, 2.48–60.

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 123 48 August., Ep. 88.2; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18; Opt., App. 3; Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.1. 49 An exhaustive survey of metaphorical language used by emperors prior to Constantine is not possible here. For some examples, however, see Cass. Dio 53.4.1; Tac. Ann. 3.54, 4.17; M. Aur. Med. 2.1, 3.13, 5.22. 50 Bennett Simon, ‘Mind and Madness in Classical Antiquity’ in History of Psychiatry and Medical Psychology (Edwin R. Wallace IV and John Gach, eds.; New York: Springer, 2008), 178; Jacque Joanna, Greek Medicine from Hippocrates to Galen: Selected Papers (Philip van der Eijk, and Neil Allies, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 74. 51 For extended discussion, see Louise Cilliers and François P. Retief, ‘Mental Illness in the Greco-Roman Era’ in Mania: Madness in the Greco-Roman World (Philip Bosman, ed.; Pretoria: Classical Association of South Africa, 2009), 130–140; Paul Crittenden, Reason, Will and Emotion: Defending the Greek Tradition against Triune Consciousness (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 117–140. Samuel Powell, The Impassioned Life: Reason and Emotion in the Christian Tradition (Augsburg: Fortress Press, 2016), 7–47. See also the essays in The Emotions in Hellenistic Philosophy (Juha Sihvola and Troels Engberg-Pedersen, eds.; Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1998). 52 Hippoc., De pris. medic. 14; Simon, ‘Mind and Madness’ in History of Psychiatry (Wallace and Gachs, eds.), 176, 181–183. 53 Aloys Winterling, Politics and Society in Imperial Rome (Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 103–106. For Celsus, Med. in Latin, see CML I. For translation of this work in English, see Celsus: On Medicine (LCL; 3 vols.; W.G. Spencer, trans.; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1935–1938). For the works of Galen in Latin, see CMG V. A number of these are available in updated English translations in Galen: Selected Works (Peter N. Singer, trans.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001) and Galen: Psychological Writings (Peter N. Singer, ed.; Vivian Nutton, Daniel Davies and Peter N. Singer with Pierro Tassinari, trans.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). 54 Winterling, Politics and Society, 106. 55 Const., Orat. 13: ἐρεθίζει γὰρ οὐ μικρῶς ὁ θυμός, βιάζεται δὲ καὶ ἡ ἐπιθυμία, καὶ τοὺς ἄφρονας ἐκτραχηλιάζουσιν, ὅταν τοῦ λόγου περιγένωνται. 56 Pl., Phdr. 253c–254e. 57 Const., Orat. 3: τῶν ὄντων ἁπάντων ἕνα εἰναι προστάτην, καὶ πάνθ' ὑποτετάχθαι τῇ ἐκείνου δεσποτείᾳ μόνου, τά τ' οὐραηία τά τ' ἐπίγεια καὶ τὰ φυσικὰ καὶ ὀργανικὰ σώματα. εἰ γὰρ ἡ τούτω ἀναριθμήτων ὄντων κυρία οὐχ ἑνὸς ἀλλὰ πολλῶν οὐσα ἐτύγχανεν, κλῆροι ἂν καὶ στοιχείων διανεμήσεις καὶ μῦθοι παλαιοὶ καὶ φθόνος καὶ πλεονεξία κατὰ δύναμιν ἐπικρατήσαντα τὴν ἐναρμόνιον τῶν πάντων ὁμόνοιαν διεσάλευε, πολλῶν διαφόρως τὴν λελογχυῖαν ἑκάστῳ μοῖραν διοικονομουμένων, τοῦ δὲ ἀεὶ κατὰ τὰ αὐτά τε καὶ ὡσαύτως ἔχειν τὸν σύμπαντα κόσμον ἀμελούντων … ὀργὴ δὲ καὶ στάσις καὶ ὄνειδος, ὡς μὴ ἰδιοπραγούντων μηδ' ἀρκουμένων τοῖς ἐ πιβάλλουσι διὰ πλεονεξίαν, καὶ τὸ τελευταῖον ἡ πάντων σύγχυσις ἐπηκολούθησεν ἄν. 58 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.48.1. 59 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.58.1–2. 60 H.F.J. Horstmanshoff, ‘The Ancient Physician: Craftsman or Scientist?’, Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 45:2 (1990), 176–197 at 185. 61 Horstmanshoff, ‘Ancient Physician’, 181. On the social status and education of physicians in the Roman world, see Susan P. Mattern, Galen and the Rhetoric of Healing (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2008), 23–26. Mattern used the term ‘agonistic’ to describe the ‘highly public and competitive’ environment in which physicians competed with each other especially during the Second Sophistic (late 1st– early 3rd centuries). See Mattern, Galen, 68–97.

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62 Horstmanshoff, ‘Ancient Physician’, 179–182. According to Mattern, Galen ‘insisted relentlessly’ on the necessity of winning a patient’s trust and obedience. See Mattern, Galen, 146. 63 Horstmanshoff, ‘Ancient Physician’, 179; cf. Hippoc., De capit. vuln. 10. 64 Horstmanshoff, ‘Ancient Physician’, 179. For examples of ‘case histories’ in ancient Greek and Roman medicine, see Mattern, Galen, 27–49. 65 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68–70. For historical background applying themes of healing and medicine to Roman emperors and civil affairs prior to Constantine, see Gabriele Ziethen, ‘Heiling und römisher Kaiserkult’, Sudhoofs Archiv 78:2 (1994), 171–191. 66 Opt., App. 9; Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.18.2, 3.18.4. 67 Opt., App. 9; Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24–42, 2.48–60, 2.64–72, 3.17–20.2, 4.35. 68 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.6.4–5. 69 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.6.4–5. 70 Constantine did not receive Anulinus’ notification of the charges against Caecilian until sometime after April 313. See August., Ep. 88.2; cf. Timothy Barnes, The New Empire of Diocletian and Constantine (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1982), 240. 71 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18–20. 72 It becomes historically appropriate to refer to the faction opposing Caecilian as ‘Donatist’ after April 313 when they described themselves as ‘the party of Donatus’ in their petition to Constantine. See Opt., De schism. donatist. 1.22; Barnes, New Empire, 240. 73 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.21; Barnes, New Empire, 242. 74 Euseb., Hist. ecc. 10.5.21, 24. Note the relational use of ἀδελφικήν τε ὁμόνοιαν. Also, Constantine’s use of restorative language indicates his belief (or desire to communicate) that a condition of unity either did or ought to exist—regardless of the actual extent to which any such unity existed among Christians by the time of this letter’s writing. See Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.22. 75 Opt., App. 3: plures vesano furore vanis criminationibus. See ‘Aelafius’ in PLRE, 16; Mark Edwards, Against the Donatists (TTH; Mark Edwards, trans. and ed.; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1997), 181n1. 76 The date of this letter subsequent to the synod at Rome is explicit in the text itself. See Opt., App. 3: dirimendae dissensionis huiuscemodi causa placuerat mihi, ut ad urbem Romam tam Caeclianus Carthaginensis episcopus. 77 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.21–24; Opt., App. 3. 78 Opt., App. 5: maxima durities animi; cf. App. 6: obstinatio animo. 79 Opt., App. 5: sed non profuit apud eos recta diiudicatio neque in eorum sensus ingressa est divinitas propitia; revera enim non inmerito ab his procul abscesserit Christi clementia, in quibus manifesta luce claret huius modi esse, ut eos etiam a caelesti provisione exosos cernamus, quae in ipsos tanta vesania perseverat, cum incredibili arrogantia persuadent sibi. 80 Opt., App. 5: meum iudicium postulant, qui ipse iudicium Christi expecto. dico enim, ut se veritas habet, sacerdotum iudicium ita debet haberi, ac si ipse dominus residens iudicet. 81 John Noël Dillon, The Justice of Constantine: Law, Communication, and Control (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2012), 255–256. For the law, see Cod. Theod. 1.27.1. See also Constit. Sirm. 1 for a similar law dated 5 May 333. Neither law is entirely free of doubts about its authenticity, for which see Clyde Pharr, The Theodosian Code: A Translation with Commentary, Glossary, and Bibliography (Clyde Pharr, Theresa Sherrer Davidson and Mary Brown Pharr, trans.; Clark: Lawbook Exchange, 2012), 31n1; A.J.B. Sirks, ‘The episcopalis audientia in Late Antiquity’, Droit et cultures: Revue internationale interdisciplinaire 65 (June 2013), 79–88.

The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity 125 82 Opt., App. 7: sine ulla dubitatione insaniae suae obstinationisque temerariae faciam merita exitia persolvere. 83 Opt., App. 5: quos malignitas diaboli videbatur a praeclarissima luce legis catholicae miserabili sua persuasione avertisse. 84 Opt., App. 5: quid igitur sentiunt maligni homines officia, ut vere dixi, diaboli? perquirunt saecularia relinquentes caelestia. o rabida furoris audacia! 85 Opt., App. 10: sed quis semel possessus animas a malo … qui a diabolo possessi sunt. Concerning madness and demonic possession, see Simon, ‘Mind and Madness’ in History of Psychiatry (Wallace and Gach, eds.), 183–185; Cam Grey, ‘Demoniacs, Dissent, and Disempowerment in the Late Roman West: Some Cases from the Hagiographical Literature’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 13:1 (2005), 39–69 esp. 42–48; Nadine Metzger, ‘“Not a Daimōn, but a Severe Illness”: Oribasius, Posidonius and Later Ancient Perspectives on Superhuman Agents Causing Disease’ in Mental Illness in Ancient Medicine: From Celsus to Paul of Aegina (Chiara Thumiger and P.N. Singer, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2018), 79–106. 86 Const., Orat. 1, 3, 5–7, 11, 13–15, 22–26. 87 Const., Orat. 3: τῶν γὰρ ἐν γενέσει πάντων αὐτὸς ἀρχήν· ὁ δὲ ἐξ ἐκείνου ἔχων τὴν ἀναφορὰν εἰς ἐκεῖνον ἑνοῦ ται πάλιν, ἐκείνῳ τῆς διαστάσεως συγκρίσεως τε οὐ τοπικῶς ἀλλὰ νοερῶς γινομένης. 88 On ambiguity and religious consensus in Constantine’s self-presentation, see Harold A. Drake, ‘Constantine and Consensus’, Church History 64:1 (March 1995), 1–15 in addition to the same author’s extended discussion in Constantine and the Bishops, 235–272. See also Bardill, Constantine, 218–337. 89 Const., Orat. 1, 8–9. 90 Const., Orat. 3, 5–8. 91 Const., Orat. 9, 11, 13. 92 Const. Orat. 1. 93 Const., Orat. 1: ἀλλ' ούδὲ τοῦτο χωρὶς βίας καὶ ὠμότητος͵ ἐξαιρέτως ὅτι τῇ τῶν χυδαίων δήμων ἀπροόπτῳ φoρᾷ ἡ τῶν δυναστευόντων γνώμη συνελάμβανε, μᾶλλον δὲ τῆς ἀκαίρου μανίας αὕτη καθηγεῖτο. Mark Edwards reads this as alluding to the death of Socrates, but the immediate context of this passage does not refer to the philosophers. Rather, the explicit reference to the prophets, the resistance of the world against their monotheistic message, and the policy of violent cooperation between ruler and populace against God’s worshippers indicate that Constantine had in mind the sporadic persecutions of Christians prior to that initiated under Diocletian. See Constantine and Christendom (Edwards, trans.), 2n6. 94 Const., Orat. 1. Translation in Constantine and Christendom (Edwards, trans.), 2. 95 Const., Orat. 9, 11, 18. Translation in Constantine and Christendom (Edwards, trans.), 22. Jonathan Bardill describes the logos as rational principle in Greek philosophy, its Christian usage to denote Jesus Christ, and the connection of both to descriptions of Constantine by Eusebius and perhaps the emperor himself. See Bardill, Constantine, 137–141. 96 Const., Orat. 13: ἐρεθίζει γὰρ οὐ μικρῶς ὁ θυμός, βιάζεται δὲ καὶ ἡ ἐπιθυμία, καὶ τοὺς ἄφρονας ἐκτραχηλιάζουσιν, ὅταν τοῦ λόγου περιγένωνται. 97 Const., Orat. 13. Translation in Constantine and Christendom (Edwards, trans.), 31. See also Pl. Phdr. 253d–254e; cf. Powell, The Impassioned Life, 8. 98 Const., Orat. 15. Translation in Constantine and Christendom (Edwards, trans.), 35. 99 For discussion of the schism’s theological aspects, see Robin M. Jenson and J. Patout Burns, Jr., Christianity in Roman Africa: The Development of Its Practices and Beliefs (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2014). 100 Constantine recognised there were many Christians, but only one ‘body’ of them. See Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.8–10, where the exact phrase appears twice (corpori Christianorum) along with one slight variation (Christianis … corpori et conven-

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The doctrine of ecclesiastical unity ticulis). In Eusebius’ Greek version of this document, σώματι τῷ τῶν Χριστιανῶν appears only once, but with the same use of the singular σώματι. See Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.10. Some early Christians shared the expectation that they ought to be united with one another in some way. For example, see John 17:11, 21; Rom. 12:5; Eph. 1:22–23. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.24. Opt., App. 9. Opt., App. 9: inde enim remedium sperare debemus, cum omnia bona vota et facta referuntur. verum dum caelestis medicina procedat, hactenus sunt consilia nostra moderanda, ut patientiam percolamus. On translation issues with this passage, see Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), 196n4. I follow Edwards’ replacement of cum with quo in his translation, as this makes better sense of the passage in English rather than the alternative reading. For example, see Cic. Verr. 2.5.26; Quint. 5.2.5; Tac., Hist. 1.20; Livy 3.3.5. Opt., App. 5. I follow Elizabeth Digeser’s definition of ‘forbearance’ as: ‘Any state that avoids force and puts up with behaviour that it finds objectionable can be said to be practicing forbearance’. See Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, The Making of a Christian Empire: Lactantius and Rome (Ithaca: Cornell University Press), 110. Opt., App. 9. On pacifism and violence in early Christianity, see Harold A. Drake, ‘Intolerance, Religious Violence, and Political Legitimacy’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 79:1 (March 2011), 193–235; Violence in Ancient Christianity: Victims and Perpetrators (Albert C. Geljon and Riemer Roukema, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2014); Alan Kreider, The Patient Ferment of the Early Church: The Improbable Rise of Christianity in the Roman Empire (Grand Rapids: Baker Book House, 2016); Despina Iosif, Early Christian Attitudes to War, Violence, and Military Service (Piscataway: Gorgias Press, 2013); Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, ‘The Violent Legacy of Constantine’s Military Piety’ in Religious Violence in the Ancient World: Classical Athens to Late Antiquity (Jitse H.F. Dijkstra and Christian R. Raschle, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), 228–247. Opt., App. 10. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24–42, 48–60, respectively. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24–27; 2.28.1: Τοιαύτης δὴ καὶ οὕτως βαρείας δυσσεβείας τὰ ἀνθρώπεια κατεχούσης͵ καὶ τῶν κοινῶν οἷον ὑπὸ νόσου λοιμώδους τινὸς ἄρδην δια φθαρῆναι κινδυνευόντων καὶ θεραπείας σωτηρίου πολλῆς χρῃζόντων͵ τίνα τὸ θεῖον ἐπινοεῖ κουφισμόν͵ τίνα τῶν δεινῶν ἀπαλλαγήν. Constantine was not claiming credit here for defeating each of these emperors himself, but rather pointing to the fact of their deaths that left him alone in power. Only Maximian, Maxentius, and Licinius were executed after challenging Constantine unsuccessfully. Severus surrendered to Maximian in 307, and either died by his own hand or execution. See Lactant., De mort. pers. 26.8–11; Orig. Const. 4.9–10; Eutr. 10.2; Aur. Vict., Caes. 40; Barnes, New Empire, 38–39. Maximian was said to have conspired against Constantine twice without success, and either committed suicide or was executed in 310 after the second attempt. See Pan. Lat. 6.14.1–6.15.3; Lactant., De mort. pers. 29.3–30.6; Barnes, New Empire, 34–35. Galerius died in April 311 after suffering from a horrible disease that was described graphically by Lactantius and Eusebius of Caesarea. See Lactant., De mort. pers. 33; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 8.16; cf. Antonis A. Kousoulis, et. al., ‘The Fatal Disease of Emperor Galerius’, Journal of the American College of Surgeons 215:6 (August 2012), 890–893. The date and manner of Diocletian’s death are uncertain, though it was probably in the early 310s. See Lactant., De mort. pers. 42.2–3; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 8 app. 3; Barnes, New Empire, 31–32. Licinius defeated Daia in April 313, and the latter was said to have committed suicide, for which see Lactant., De mort. pers. 49; Euseb., Hist. eccl.

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112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123

124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133

9.10; Eutr. 10.4; Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 62–63; cf. Barnes, Constantine: Dynasty, Religion, and Power in the Later Roman Empire (Malden: Blackwell, 2014), 97–98. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.28.2–29.1, esp. 2.29.1: ἃ βαρυτέραις κατεχόμενα συμφοραῖς μείζονα καὶ τὴν παρ’ ἡμῶν θεραπείαν ἐπεβοᾶτο. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.29.3. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.29.3–32.2. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.33–34.1. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.34.2. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.35–41; cf. Lactant., De mort. pers. 48.7–9. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.42. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.48–54. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.55.1: εἴης πρᾶός τε καὶ εὐμενὴς τοῖς σοῖς ἀνατολικοῖς, εἴης πᾶσι τοῖς σοῖς ἐπαρχιώταις ὑπὸ χρονίου συμφορᾶς συντριβεῖσι, δι’ ἐμοῦ τοῦ σοῦ θεράποντος ὀρέγων ἴασιν. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.55.1–2. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.56.1. Translation in Eusebius: Life of Constantine (CAHS; Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall, trans.; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 113. The notion of a particular ‘people of God’ comes from the Pentateuch and was subsequently incorporated into Christian self-identity. For example, see Gen. 12:1–3; Ex. 6:6–7; Deut. 7:6; cf. Acts 3:17–26; Rom. 9–11. See N.T. Wright, The New Testament and the People of God (London: SPCK, 1992) and A Holy People: Jewish and Christian Perspectives on Religious Communal Identity (Marcel Poorthius and Joshua Schwartz, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2006). Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.56.1–2, 2.59–60. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.59–60.2. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.59–60. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.66–67. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.1. See pp. 127–128 in this volume. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.1: πολλῷ χαλεπωτέραν τῶν ἐκεῖ καταλειφθέντων τὴν ἐν ὑμῖν γιγνομένην διχοστασίαν σημαῖνον͵ ὡς πλείονος ἤδη τὰ καθʹ ὑμᾶς μέρη θεραπείας δεῖσθαι͵ παρʹ ὧν τοῖς ἄλλοις τὴν ἴασιν ὑπάρξειν ἤλισα. Cf. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.29.1. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24.1–29.1. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.4, 3.5.1; Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 59; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.6. Barnes suggested that Constantine put Easter on Nicaea’s agenda. See Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 217; cf. Barnes, Constantine, 123. The basis of his speculation is that the emperor significantly participated in discussion and later wrote a letter informing churches in Syria and Palestine of the council’s decision concerning the subject. However, Eusebius related that Constantine assumed the role of impartial mediator during the council’s proceedings, implying a high degree of participation in the discussions on a variety of subjects rather than merely Easter. See Euseb., Vit Const. 1.44.1–3, 3.13.1–2. Aside from this, the issue regarding its celebration and the calculation of its date was a long-standing conflict that continued in the recent memory of those assembled at the council. See Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.5.1–2; cf. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.20, 7.32.14–19. Thus, the matter’s place on the council’s agenda could just as easily have come from the bishops themselves. However, Barnes may have interpreted Vit. Const. 3.5.2 as suggesting the long-standing disagreements over Easter could not be resolved by the bishops, thus requiring Constantine’s intervention by ensuring its place among matters to be discussed at Nicaea. See also Roger T. Beckwith, Calendar and Chronology, Jewish and Christian: Biblical, Intertestamental and Patristic Studies (Boston: Brill, 2001), 63–65.

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134 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.2. Translated as ‘peaceful arbitrator’ by Averil Cameron and Stuart Hall, for which see Cameron and Hall, Life of Constantine, 117. 135 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.66: μανίας γὰρ δήπουθεν οὐκ ἀεκτῆς τὴν 'Αφρικὴν ἐπιλαβούσ ης [καὶ] διὰ τοὺς ἀβούλῳ κουφότητι τὴν δήμων θρησκείαν εἰς διαφόρους αἱρέσεις σχίσαι τετολμηκότας, ταύτην ἐγὼ τὴν νόσον καταστεῖλαι βουληθείς, οὐδεμιάν ἑτέραν ἀρκοῦσαν τῷ πράγματι θεραπείαν ηὕρισκον, ἣ εἰ τὸν κοινὸν τῆς οἰκουμένης ἐχθρὸν ἐξελών, ὃς ταῖς ἱεραῖς ὑμῶν συνόδοις τὴν ἀθέμιτον ἑαυτοῦ γνώμην ἀντέστησεν, ἐνίους ὑμῶν πρὸς τὴν τῶν πὸς ἀλλήλους διχονοούντων ὁμόνοιαν βοηθοὺς ἀποστείλαιμι. 136 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.2. 137 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.1–2. διαλογιζομένῳ δή μοι τὴν ἀρχὴν καὶ τὴν ὑπόθεσιν τούτων ἄγαν εὐτελὴς καὶ οὐδαμῶς ἀξία τῆς τοσαύτης φιλονεικίας ἡ πρόφασις ἐφωράθη. 138 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.69.1–2, 2.70, 2.71.6–8. 139 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.69.1–71.7. 140 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.17–20.2; Opitz, Urk. 25. 141 See the letter of the bishops assembled at Nicaea, addressed to the church in Alexandria, in Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.9; Theod., Hist. eccl. 1.8. 142 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.18.2–4. 143 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.18.2: οἳ τὰς ἑαυτῶν χεῖρας ἀθεμίτῳ πλημμελήματι χράναντες εἰκότως τὰς ψυχάς οἱ μιαροὶ τυφλώττουσιν. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.18.4: τί δὲ φρονεῖν ὀρθὸν ἐκεῖνοι δυνήσονται, οἳ μετὰ τὴν κυριοκτονίαν τε καὶ πατροκτονίαν ἐκείνην ἐκστάντες τῶν φρενῶν ἄγονται οὐ λογισμῷ τινι ἀλλ' ὁρμῇ ἀκατασχέτω, ὄπῃ δ' ἂν αὐτοὺς ἡἔμφυτος αὐτῶν ἀγάγῃ μανία. The Greek text is given here in a more complete form than the English appears in the chapter, and the translation is in Eusebius: Life of Constantine (Cameron and Hall, trans.), 128. 144 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.18.1. 145 Opitz, Urk. 25. 146 Opitz, Urk. 25.2. 147 For ‘saving medical treatment’, see pp. 113–115 in this volume. 148 For Constantine’s letter to the churches on Easter, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.17–20. 149 Opitz, Urk. 25.1; cf., for instance, Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.70.5–7.

4

The doctrine of resistance and compromise The Donatist schism

Viewed together, the previous two chapters set out to examine more closely and prioritise Constantine’s aims concerning Christianity within his broader goal to unite the territories under his control—first in the West from 313 to 324 and later including the East after 324. He acted within the established imperial tradition to legitimise his rule by claiming divine assistance in his key victories over Maxentius and Licinius, which eventually gained him mastery over the whole Roman Empire. The striking anomaly in Constantine’s use of this particular tradition was in identifying the ‘supreme God’, whom he declared had so favoured him, with the God of Christianity. Thus, the victorious emperor subsequently acted within a conventional framework of patronage, according to which the divine patron who granted benefits was owed gratitude, by protecting Christians and promoting their interests as he understood them in order to ensure God’s continued blessing and sanction on his rule. However, when he became aware of divisions among the Christians—first in North Africa and later in Egypt and various parts of the East—he perceived that such disruptions in the unity of God’s worshippers placed him at risk of losing divine support. He, therefore, treated each of these problems of ecclesiastical conflict seriously and assumed responsibility for restoring unity among divided Christians. Constantine understood the schism in North Africa primarily as an organisational matter in which there could only be one corpus Christianorum identifiable by the properly established leadership of a single bishop of Carthage. Unity thus involved arriving at an agreed uniformity of rites and practices. When the emperor later learned of ecclesiastical strife originating in Alexandria and spreading throughout the East, he viewed its origins in a difference of theological opinion. The kind of unity sought by Constantine in this case entailed a more general harmony of belief in which priority was given to maintaining fellowship over agreeing on theological details. Yet the emperor’s aims did not result in accomplishments where the churches were concerned as his policies met with resistance from some of the Christians themselves. Constantine’s efforts to help secure re-unification of the divided North African churches were thwarted when the Donatists either could or would not accept two collective episcopal decisions favouring their Caecilianist opponents—first at the hearing before bishops in Rome in 313 and then at the Council of Arles in 314. Even attempts to repress the Donatists by the order of confiscation DOI: 10.4324/9781003215677-5

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and exile in 316 and the coercive measures and violence that occurred against them from 317 to 321 met with failure. Towards the end of 324, then, Constantine adjusted his initial approach to the eastern dispute that centred around Alexander and Arius by positioning himself rhetorically as a mediator who might persuade rather than an emperor whose expressed will carried compelling legal force. However, the decisions reached at the Council of Nicaea in 325 raised more questions and possibilities for the future of Christian theology than it managed to answer. Ecclesiastical conflicts involving schism and heresy continued to present problems for Constantine until the end of his reign—and for his Christian successors through much of what remained of the fourth century. The combined purpose of the next two chapters, beginning here in this chapter, is to examine Constantine’s responses when resistance by Christians who (in his view) persisted in their divisions disappointed his aspirations towards ecclesiastical unity. Such responses are clarified by considering other major patterns in the emperor’s rhetoric as shown in his correspondence and indicate that his actions were guided by what we may call a developing doctrine of resistance and compromise. Examples of three patterns in these letters beyond those already described in Chapters 2 and 3 are sufficiently numerous that this doctrine is discussed in two parts. The present chapter comprises part one, focusing on Constantine’s response to ecclesiastical conflict and resistance in North Africa. Referring to Donatist rejection of the two episcopal decisions at Rome and Arles favouring their opponents in terms of ‘obstinacy’ (obstinatio)—language that evoked earlier official attitudes resulting in the persecution of Christians—Constantine instead moved quickly towards a cooperative effort that he hoped would achieve his aims without violence. He remained willing to employ limited coercive power by ratifying and enforcing the decisions reached by the majority of an episcopal assembly. At the same time, he steadily demonstrated his commitment to persuading and enabling Christians to resolve their differences. Chapter 5 constitutes part two of this analysis of resistance and compromise as Constantine confronted similar challenges in the East after 324. Two inter-related rhetorical patterns to be described there deal with his reliance on what will be called ‘aesthetic arguments’ that frequently appeared in connection with commands expressed in terms of potentiality. Scholars have described the view by Roman authorities prior to Constantine that Christians deserved punishment for refusing to participate in sacrifices.1 But it has gone unnoticed that Constantine, imperial patron and protector of Christianity, also used similar language when responding to some Christians’ unwillingness or inability to resolve their conflicts with other Christians. That gap in our knowledge is addressed here by examining the emperor’s perception of and response to resistance by Christians who maintained their separations from each other despite attempts to resolve them. This helps modern readers of Constantine’s letters make sense of paradoxical statements in which, on the one hand, he spoke threateningly while, on the other (sometimes in the same document), he called for patience. The Roman officials’ outlook regarding Christian ‘obstinacy’ is connected in the first section of this chapter with persecution as punishment for resisting imperial authority. Despite some minor modifications

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and periods of relative peace for the churches, this perspective on and policy towards Christians—carried out by provincial governors and local officials but sanctioned by the emperors—remained relatively consistent from Trajan’s reign in the early second century up to Galerius’ proclamation of toleration just before his death in April 311. The chapter goes on to deal with Constantine’s use of similar language related to ‘obstinacy’ as he responded to the Donatists’ appeals.2 The emperor’s related correspondence contains 16 explicit and implicit examples of this kind of rhetoric.3 Yet, however severe Constantine’s initial verbal response, these writings addressed to governors and bishops also show that he would not by his actions force Christians to agree when they otherwise could not. The chapter concludes with an analysis of the theme of compromise within Constantine’s language as it appeared along with his more ominously toned utterances.

Christian resistance as ‘obstinacy’ during persecution As we have seen, Constantine treated division among Christians as a problem of critical importance.4 This continued to be the case even when initial efforts to restore unity proved ineffective. After the emperor denied the Donatists’ appeal against the decision at Rome in 313, he communicated his displeasure with them to the vicarius of Africa: They determined it necessary to reply obstinately and pertinaciously [to Constantine’s refusal to hear the Donatists’ appeal] that the whole lawsuit had not been heard, but that the same capable bishops had shut themselves in a certain place and reached that which was in accordance with themselves.5 As shown below, such language when used even by an emperor quite friendly towards Christianity could nevertheless be potentially received as harsh or even threatening because imperial authorities had used the same type of speech during earlier periods of persecution. The perception by imperial administrators of Christian ‘obstinacy’ (obstinatio) as punishable resistance was key in official proceedings against them from approximately A.D. 112 when Pliny the Younger corresponded with the emperor Trajan.6 While repeating a complete narrative of the persecutions is unnecessary, the following examples and discussion should demonstrate sufficiently that Christians resolve not to sacrifice was consistently viewed and punished by imperial authorities as resistance, often in language evoking images related to ‘obstinacy’.7 Some Christians rejected repeated offers of clemency that had been given on the condition that they demonstrated regret (paenitentia) by participating in official forms of worship through sacrifice. For this reason, the authorities treated such refusal by itself as stubbornness deserving punishment without regard to the truthfulness of any criminal accusation that had brought these Christians to trial in the first place. Pliny briefly outlined his approach as governor of Bithynia in a wellknown letter to Trajan, in which he sought his emperor’s guidance in the matter of an approved judicial method for handling accusations against Christians gathering

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allegedly for suspicious purposes.8 It is not necessary that being a Christian was a crime, but rather certain activities (such as those Pliny described in his letter concerning gatherings for unknown reasons and swearing oaths) were looked on with apprehension by authorities wary of conspiracies.9 Pliny wrote to Trajan in order to inform the emperor, in light of his own stated inexperience in hearing criminal cases involving Christians, of the procedure he had adopted thus far.10 First, those who were brought to Pliny’s court on the charge of being Christians were asked whether the allegations were true. If they affirmed their Christian identity, Pliny asked the same question twice more with a warning. At this point, he informed Trajan, ‘if they persist (perseverantes), I order them to be led away for execution; for, whatever the nature of their admission, I am convinced that their stubbornness and unshakeable obstinacy (pertinaciam certe et inflexibilem obstinationem) ought not to go unpunished’.11 Such supposed inflexibility was not part of any reasons that Christians were initially brought to trial. Rather, Pliny saw fit to punish those Christians already standing before him for refusing his offers of leniency if they would show through sacrifice that any charges associated with their religious profession were baseless.12 What Christians understood as resolve to avoid idolatry at any cost, Pliny interpreted as defiance and punished it accordingly. Trajan approved Pliny’s procedure as it was reported to him and upheld the possibility of the accused being pardoned by demonstrating paenitentia through sacrifice.13 Trajan thereby tacitly affirmed Pliny’s executing these Christians as punishment for their persistent and ‘obstinate’ refusal to accept the offered clemency by performing the required act of loyalty to the officially recognised gods. In spite of some modified details, the same basic policy of punishing Christian ‘obstinacy’ continued through the early fourth century. According to James Corke-Webster, there is ‘no good evidence of Trajan’s rescript being used in any later Roman treatment of Christians’. It should, therefore, in his view, no longer be tenable to interpret this correspondence under the assumption that Trajan’s reply was either intended or actually did ‘have a long legacy in the later [official Roman] treatment of Christians’.14 However, Timothy Barnes’ earlier conclusion—in an article critiqued by Corke-Webster—was that ‘the legal position of Christians continu[ed] exactly as Trajan defined it until Decius’.15 This is not the same as saying (as Corke-Webster apparently took Barnes’ meaning) that Trajan intended this reply to have lasting legal force. Rather, what Barnes argued, and a re-examination of his evidence confirms, is that Pliny’s procedure and Trajan’s reply were incorporated into later policies concerning Christians, remaining generally unchanged until the mid-third century under Decius.16 This may have been an unintended consequence of this correspondence between Trajan and Pliny being preserved and coming to the attention of other officials as the number of Christian continued to grow and their institutions developed. For instance, Marcus Aurelius objected in his Meditations (written sometime around 170–175) to what he called the Christians’ ‘irrational pig-headedness ... a complaint often levelled against [them]’.17 By this time, the bishop Polycarp of Smyrna had been executed at Lyons (c. 155–156) and the apologist Justin was also martyred (c. 162–168). Further actions against Christians followed, including notorious mob violence in Lyons

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(c. 177) and the execution of 12 men and women in Carthage remembered as the ‘Scillitan Martyrs’ (c. 180).18 Marcus praised the Christians’ voluntary choosing of death but explicitly distinguished the virtue in such an act from ‘mere[ly] obstinate opposition’ (ψιλὴν παράταξιν).19 A letter supposedly written by either Marcus Aurelius or his predecessor, Antoninus Pius (r. 138–161), asserted that the gods punished those who were unwilling to worship them; it also criticised the provincial council of Asia for driving Christians to martyrdom.20 The same letter affirmed that Christians were not to be harmed unless they were found to be plotting against the government.21 Nevertheless, the perception under Marcus was that the stubbornness of Christians could be equated with such subversive scheming. During the reign of Marcus’ son and successor Commodus (r. 180–192), a well-known Christian named Apollonius was beheaded after refusing to change his opinion at the judge’s pleading.22 There remained no change to Trajan’s policy in the third century under either Maximinus ‘Thrax’ (r. 235–238) or Philip ‘the Arab’ (r. 244–249) in terms of the Christians’ position according to Roman law. That position was also unaffected by the differing attitudes of Maximinus and Philip towards Christians; the former said to be hostile, whereas the latter was supposedly favourable to them.23 The potential scope of religious persecution, under Decius’ brief rule (r. 249– 251), expanded from governors’ responses to local popular anti-Christian hostility to include direct orders by the emperor affecting the whole empire. The actual text of Decius’ edict on sacrifice no longer survives, but indirect evidence exists regarding its results, from which its original content can be inferred.24 The edict demanded that everyone (except for the Jews) sacrifice to the gods and obtain an official certificate, called a libellus, attesting that this demonstration of piety had been performed. This procedure represented an additional development beyond the efforts of any previous emperor to win the gods’ support, and James Rives is at a loss to explain why Decius gave it this particular form. Oddly, though, Rives failed to mention the various crises facing the empire at this time such as civil war, foreign invasion, famine, and plague—each of which (combined with the exponential growth of Christianity) could have been viewed as signs of divine anger affecting everyone and thus requiring a more substantial effort to ensure that proper religion from that perspective was restored in all parts of the empire. At any rate, it is true that Decius’ requirement of universal sacrifice and the procedures of enforcement were innovative. But what remained consistent with Trajan’s policy, even at this later date and with these modifications, was the assumed propriety of punishing Christians for resisting the emperor by persistently refusing the sacrificial acts of paenitentia. All of the libelli that remain to us come from Egypt, the published text and English translation of just over 40 of these brief documents were provided by John Knipfling early in the twentieth century.25 The exact wording differs slightly in each libellus, but three consistent features point towards a common policy. First, the statement that one has ‘always and without interruption’ sacrificed to the gods appears to leave no room for a change of heart at any point. According to Cyprian, bishop of Carthage (c. 248–258), many Christians in North Africa obeyed Decius’

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edict to the letter—they were not arrested and tried, or forced to sacrifice, and did not feign compliance in any way.26 Eusebius of Caesarea, in his own words and selectively quoting from two letters of Dionysius (bishop of Alexandria, c. 248–264), described the authorities’ violent repression of any Christian resistance against this edict.27 Such immediate submission even by many Christians and the fierce punishment of apparently few others who resisted, along with the wording of the libelli, might suggest that this time there was no allowance for paenitentia. In that case, Decius’ treatment of Christians would represent a significant departure from Pliny’s procedure validated by Trajan beyond simply the wider scope of the law’s application. Yet there are in this passage from Eusebius several explicit examples of officials who acted under Decius within the earlier policy of Pliny/Trajan governing the official treatment of Christians. Dionysius, in his second letter preserved at this point in Eusebius’ narrative, described an old man named Metras who was urged to ‘utter blasphemous words’—perhaps renouncing or cursing Christ.28 Further down in the same letter, Dionysius described how an elderly virgin named Apollonia was savagely abused and threatened with burning ‘if she refused to recite along with them their blasphemous sayings’, which suggests that she was given the opportunity to do so and be excused by such a demonstration from the charge of failing to sacrifice. Apollonia asked for a moment as if to consider, and it was given to her (again, showing some measure of restraint by the court in order to win her conformity). She was released but immediately leaped into the flames that had been prepared for her.29 A Libyan named Makar, who was residing at the time in Alexandria, was strongly urged by his judge to sacrifice but also surrendered himself to be burned instead.30 When each of these incidents that took place as Decius’ policy was enforced are compared with the procedure outlined by Pliny and confirmed by Trajan, the authorities’ conduct (at least in Egypt) lined up closely with that earlier precedent. The second feature shared by the libelli is the performance of a three-fold act through a poured libation, sacrifice, and tasting of the sacrificial victim’s flesh and blood.31 Such cultic activities were commonplace in antiquity, and the apparent prescription of these specific ritual forms under Decius represented a new effort by the imperial centre to universalise a uniform religious practice in a basic manner that ought to have the widest appeal.32 This action was taken in response to the imperial concern that previous leniency towards local expressions of worship in the provinces was insufficient to maintain divine protection, as perhaps demonstrated to them by the continuing severe crises afflicting the empire at this time— not the least of which was a quickly spreading pandemic that may have been a lethal form of influenza or haemorrhagic fever, known commonly as ‘the plague of Cyprian’ (after the bishop of Carthage who described its symptoms and effects in his treatise On the Mortality).33 Pliny had specifically mentioned libations of wine to Trajan as one means—along with verbally renouncing Christ, invoking the gods, and burning incense—of compelling accused Christians to demonstrate whether or not they were guilty. This, Pliny wrote, was based on his assumption that no ‘true Christian’ (re vera Christiani) could be made to do so.34 He did not explicitly mention animal sacrifice or the tasting of offered meat. Yet his claims

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that (as a result of his actions) formerly abandoned temples were filling once more with worshippers, neglected sacred rituals (sacra sollemnia) were again performed, and hitherto unpurchased sacrificial meat was being sold all indicate the ostensible renewal of the common traditional rites—even if such sacrifice and partaking of the victim’s flesh was not part of his judicial procedure.35 Trajan affirmed Pliny’s practice in this regard.36 Thirdly, each libellus shows that these actions were taken before official witnesses ‘in accordance with the edict’s decree’. This evident requirement to officially verify compliance in the presence of at least a single witness—either an official superintending local sacrifices or a member of the petitioner’s circle of friends or family members—points towards a significant level of concern by the imperial administration to ensure the edict’s enforcement. By itself, monotheistic religion did not necessarily present a problem. Douglas Boin observes no evidence that minority groups like the Jews either put up any kind of public resistance against Decius’ edict or even sought exemption from it.37 In fact, there is no indication the Jews were even required to participate and scholars usually assume they were exempted.38 Christians, however, did not enjoy the same exemption since their origins were never viewed as being rooted in ancient tradition—despite attempts by apologists like Justin Martyr or Tertullian to win acceptance by trying to demonstrate otherwise.39 As Robert Wilken put it, ‘tradition was the test of truth’ for the Romans, especially where religion was concerned.40 Christianity may have originated as a sect within Judaism, but its broad assimilation of nonJews over large areas during long periods (along with its central focus on Jesus of Nazareth, who lived and died during the reigns of Augustus and Tiberius) must have contributed significantly to Roman perceptions of Christianity as distinct from and newer than the Jewish religion. As Pliny’s letter to Trajan made clear, Christians were assumed to be involved in suspicious, secretive, subversive criminal activity—views apparently originating under Nero and which were picked up by subsequent opponents of Christianity.41 During Valerian’s reign (253–260), the aforementioned Dionysius of Alexandria described his own appearance before Aemilianus, governor of Egypt, in a letter preserved by Eusebius.42 The whole procedure recounted by Dionysius mirrors that which was discussed between Pliny and Trajan. Aemilianus gave Dionysius three opportunities to accept clemency by participating in sanctioned worship and was thrice refused.43 As Aemilianus pronounced the sentence of exile, he referred to the bishop’s obstinate resistance: I see that you are at once ungrateful and insensible (ἀναισθήτους) of the clemency of our Augusti [Valerian and Gallienus]. Wherefore you shall not be in this city, but you shall betake yourselves to the parts of Libya and [remain] in a place called Cephro.44 The meaning of ἀναισθήτους—from which comes the English word ‘anaesthetic’—carries a sense rather close to ‘madness’ in terms of being stupid or without common sense, as well as a lack of emotional or physical feeling. To

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Aemilianus, Dionysius deserved punishment for his block-headed refusal to pay respect to the gods. Yet the governor’s sending the bishop and the four clergymen on trial with him into exile, which might replace death as a form of capital punishment, could be understood as a further form of mercy. However, should the bishop and those Christians accompanying him at trial display further stubbornness by failing to arrive in Cephro, they were threatened with death.45 Lactantius and Eusebius of Caesarea each provided complementary perspectives on the persecution of Christians that originated under Diocletian and Galerius, occurring between roughly 303 and 313.46 The ‘great persecution’, as it is commonly known, that these Christian authors described may be summed up as a narrative of resistance and compromise—among the various emperors themselves, as well as between the emperors and Christians. Like Valerian, Diocletian initially tolerated Christians until a subordinate official (Galerius) used the occasion of a failed sacrifice to provoke a change in the senior emperor’s policy.47 Around the turn of the fourth century (c. 298–300), Diocletian became enraged at the augurs’ failure to properly read the sacrificial entrails and ordered everyone present at the ritual and in the imperial palace to sacrifice or be scourged. According to Lactantius, who wrote closer in time to the actual events than Eusebius, Diocletian reacted to the chief augur’s suggestion that ‘profane persons’ (profani homines) present at the ritual were to blame. These individuals may have been imperial attendants who happened to be Christians: as the ceremony was performed, they ‘put the immortal sign on their foreheads’ (imposuerunt frontibus suis immortale signum) against the demonic powers some Christians associated with divination and sacrifice.48 Furthermore, soldiers in the legions were ordered to sacrifice or face dishonourable discharge.49 These two imperial orders were the limit of Diocletian’s actions thus far and were attributed by Lactantius to this emperor alone apart from any other influence.50 To whatever extent Diocletian may have felt divine favour disrupted by the unsuccessful ceremony, these measures appear intended to re-establish its sanction on the centres of power in the emperor’s household, court, and the military. Galerius, as Caesar in the East, was closely associated with Diocletian’s decision to continue his actions against Christianity beginning in early 303. Diocletian spent the winter of 302–303 in Bithynia where Galerius met him, and the two conferred privately.51 At this conference, Galerius was said to have strongly encouraged Diocletian to proceed with further steps against Christians.52 Lactantius placed the blame almost entirely on Galerius, who (in his account) all but forced Diocletian to persecute Christians. Barnes argues for Lactantius’ general reliability but uses the language of persuasion rather than compulsion to describe his own interpretation of Galerius’ role.53 However, Bill Leadbetter (accepting Lactantius’ information, though not necessarily his interpretations) downplays considerably any direct responsibility by Galerius for the persecution.54 I tend to side with Barnes here since I agree with the relative trustworthiness of the factual details in Lactantius’ narrative while this does not mean that it is necessary to accept all of his conclusions. In other words, we may reject Lactantius’ implication that Galerius possessed some kind of irresistible power over Diocletian while accepting the likelihood that an

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additional policy concerning the Christians was discussed (or even debated) and that the two emperors eventually came to an agreement. Thus, it is hard to see how Galerius is less to blame or not at all responsible for the persecution of Christians if the fact of his conference with Diocletian in Nicomedia at this time is accepted. Tensions between Augustus and his Caesar over this issue evidently escalated, as Diocletian tried unsuccessfully to ‘turn aside the headlong madness of the man [Galerius]’ (nec tamen deflectere potuit praecipitis hominis insaniam).55 Lactantius related that Diocletian consulted his advisers according to their rank, some of whom suggested the Christians ‘ought to be cut off, as enemies of the gods and adversaries of the established religious ceremonies’, while others apparently saw where the proverbial winds were blowing and agreed reluctantly.56 The resistance by some Christians, in numbers sufficiently large and widespread, to any policies hostile to their beliefs and interests was well known by this time. It would appear as if the more ‘hawkish’ among Diocletian’s advisers pushed for ridding the empire of Christians altogether for this very reason. Yet, Diocletian himself remained obstinate against pressure from Galerius with the assent of his advisers.57 Only after sending a haruspex (an official interpreter of the omens) to seek advice from the oracle of Apollo at Miletus did Diocletian finally relent. Even so, Lactantius wrote that the senior emperor nevertheless attempted to reach a compromise: since he [Diocletian] could struggle no longer against his friends, and against Caesar [Galerius] and Apollo, yet he was still attempting to maintain such moderation (moderationem) as to prescribe the matter to be carried through without bloodshed; whereas [Galerius] would have desired those burnt alive who had resisted (repugnassent) the sacrifice.58 We do not need to agree with Lactantius here that Diocletian’s moderation was the result of weakness. In fact, Lactantius seems to contradict himself at this point since he had just claimed that Diocletian knew how to deflect blame onto others for actions that some might find reprehensible.59 A further incident of tension between Diocletian and Galerius came when the church in Nicomedia was plundered and destroyed on 23 February 303.60 With the church in view of the imperial palace, Lactantius either imagined or reported someone’s observation that Diocletian and Galerius disputed with each other over how it ought to be destroyed.61 Galerius evidently desired the church burned to the ground, while Diocletian wanted it torn down in order to avoid the danger of a fire spreading to other nearby structures.62 According to Lactantius, Diocletian prevailed over Galerius in this instance.63 However, it would be more consistent with Lactantius’ narrative (since he portrayed Galerius as successfully pressuring Diocletian to expand his initial efforts against Christians) to, instead, see Diocletian as having reached a mutually acceptable compromise with Galerius. The church would be destroyed, although dismantled by human hands rather than consumed by potentially uncontrollable flames that might spread to other structures and bring popular odium onto the emperors.

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The first edict against the Christians was published in Nicomedia the day after the church’s destruction (24 February 303), which as Lactantius says took only a matter of hours to accomplish.64 In addition to the destruction of church buildings and the burning of scriptures, Christians with any official status were deprived of such, and freedmen who persisted (ἐπιμένοιεν) in their confession were to be reduced to slavery.65 Along with the loss of such offices and rank as they formerly possessed, Christians forfeited their protections and privileges as imperial subjects and were effectively rendered non-persons under this edict.66 An individual named Euetius, who was deprived of his apparently high social rank under the new law, tore down the published order.67 He was immediately arrested, sentenced, tortured, and burned alive for his treasonous act. Both Lactantius and Eusebius stopped short of praising Euetius as a martyr but nevertheless admired his ‘greatness of soul’ (magno tamen animo) and ‘zeal toward God’ (ζήλῳ τῷ κατὰ θεόν) in which he was ‘stirred up to a deranged mind by a fiery faith’ (ὑποκινηθεὶς διαπύρῳ τε ἐφορμήσας τῇ πίστει).68 Despite his slightly less positive description, Eusebius nevertheless praised Euetius’ ‘patient enduring’ (ὑπομείνας) as well as maintaining himself ‘without pain and undisturbed to his very last breath’ (τὸ ἄλυπον καὶ ἀτάραχον εἰς αὐτὴν τελευταίαν διετήρησεν ἀναπνοήν).69 These are all terms suggesting that while Euetius’ act did not qualify him as a martyr in the eyes of Eusebius, his act of resistance was still to be admired on some level—at least by other Christians. But from the imperial point of view, such a flagrant disregard for the emperor merited capital punishment.70 Two further acts—either resistance by Christians or an attempt by Galerius to put the blame on them—were a pair of fires that started in the imperial palace at Nicomedia.71 As a result, Diocletian subjected members of his own household to torture in order to determine who among them might have been responsible for starting the fires. However, no one who served Galerius was apprehended, and the alleged arsonist was never discovered: Lactantius implied that the perpetrator had acted under Caesar’s orders. Following the second fire, Galerius left Nicomedia perhaps around 14 March 303, and Diocletian compelled even his wife and daughter to sacrifice.72 Letters were sent to Maximian and Constantius, Augustus and Caesar (respectively) in the West, ordering them to likewise take action against the Christians in areas under their control. Maximian complied in Italy, Spain, and Africa while his Caesar (Constantius) merely allowed church buildings to be destroyed in Britain and Gaul.73 Official hostility towards Christians continued in at least some parts of the empire until May 313 when the last rivals of Constantine and Licinius were defeated. Diocletian and Maximian continued this religious policy until their dual abdication ceremonies on 1 May 305. Galerius maintained it as the new Augustus in the East until producing an edict of toleration shortly before dying in April 311.74 His Caesar, Maximinus Daia, verbally communicated instructions to his praetorian prefect, Sabinus, who wrote the order late in 311 decreeing forbearance rather than toleration.75 According to this letter, Christians should be persuaded to worship the gods, but those who refused to do so were not to be punished. Daia then sent a rescript to various cities, a copy of which was inscribed at Tyre,

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threatening Christians with exile from these locales. However, this was soon followed late in 312 by another letter from Daia that repeated the command to imperial officials that they were to persuade rather than punish.76 Galerius’ edict, Sabinus’ letter, and Daia’s own letter all referred (twice in each document) to the Christian’s refusal to worship the gods in terms of obstinacy, wilfulness, or stubborn persistence—even while the provincial governors were commanded in these documents to withdraw from punishing such conduct.77 All three of these documents justified the previous action in persecuting Christians on the basis of traditional religion, which it was claimed had been abandoned and declared they had only their own inflexible persistence to blame for any violence they suffered. Maxentius, after taking control of Italy and Africa having repelled both Severus and Galerius from Rome in 307, tolerated Christians but (like Daia) did not restore their confiscated property or re-build their churches as proved to be the empire-wide policy of Constantine and Licinius from 313 to 324 and Constantine alone after 324.78 Thus, as the next section will demonstrate, a clear message was received by at least one of the disputing Christian factions in North Africa when Constantine responded to ecclesiastical division in terms describing their ‘obstinacy’. Since Constantine had declared himself a protector and generous patron of Christians, the implied threat was probably not intended although he was surely aware of the policies and procedures concerning Christians along with their terminology. But the emperor’s use of such language to address problems within the churches themselves may have contributed to Donatist anxieties and their self-identification as the ‘church of the martyrs’ as they hardened their own position in resistance against their Caecilianist rivals.

Constantine’s rhetoric of Christian obstinacy in schism Like his imperial predecessors, who described Christians’ refusal to sacrifice as stubborn resistance that deserved punishment, Constantine also used a similar rhetoric of ‘obstinacy’ in reaction against Donatists’ appeals after Rome and Arles. He did not necessarily intend to signal that he would punish the Christians with violence for their failure to resolve their disagreement. But at the same time, he did intend on making it clear that schism could not be allowed to continue. Constantine probably responded with displeasure when he learned of the schism in North Africa, but it was the fact that Christians remained in the schism that provoked an escalating harshness in his rhetoric. The emperor’s well-known remark (‘You petition me for a temporal judgment, when I myself am awaiting the judgment of Christ’), which was misplaced chronologically by Optatus of Milevis as a direct response to initial Donatist complaints against Caecilian, actually appeared in his letter to Caecilianist bishops after the Council of Arles in 314.79 In his letter to Miltiades, which was written roughly a year earlier, Constantine acknowledged the charges against Caecilian while continuing to refer to him as ‘bishop of the city of the Carthaginians’ (τὸν ἐπίσκοπον τῆς Χαρταγενησίων πόλεως).80 The emperor’s tone is grave in this letter but contains no hint of any emotional

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outburst or threatening rhetoric. Constantine declined to become involved directly on either side of the dispute, and his reference to Caecilian here cannot be read in the context of the whole letter as unilateral imperial support for his cause as Carthage’s rightful bishop. The emperor did initiate action that would enable representatives from both ecclesiastical parties to present their respective arguments before the bishop of Rome who, along with three bishops from Gaul known and trusted by Constantine, would most carefully investigate and render an equitable decision.81 But he did not involve himself any further at this time. The emperor was not present at the hearing in Rome; he was not even in the city itself, having already departed for Gaul where the official residence was based in Trier.82 But with that hearing’s failure to resolve the schism, Constantine’s rhetoric and active engagement subsequently escalated.83 Early in 314, he wrote to the vicarius of Africa whose name is transmitted to us as ‘Aelafius’.84 Here in this letter (and at a time when the conflict was reported to be continuing despite the decision at Rome that was supported by the emperor) are the first examples of Constantine that linked ongoing discord with resistance against his will. The emperor stated his hope that all ‘seditions and contentions’ (seditionibus et contentionibus) were ended.85 He used similar wording towards the end of this letter where he warned the bishops summoned to Arles that they had better ensure there would be no ‘sedition or controversy caused by anyone in conflict’ (seditio vel aliquorum altercantium contentio) in their absence from their respective sees.86 This correlation between schism and resistance near the opening and conclusion of the letter to ‘Aelafius’ framed the language of obstinacy that Constantine applied to the Donatists in its main section. Referring to the report of certain intrigues allegedly taking place among the bishops gathered at Rome, Constantine responded that Caecilian’s accusers set before their eyes neither respect for their own safety (salutis) nor the worship of Almighty God, since indeed they persist (persistant) in those actions which not only lead to their shame and infamy, but also grant the possibility for disparaging those men whose senses are discerned to be turned far away from this most holy observance.87 The emperor’s use of salutis included a double meaning so that it can be translated as either ‘safety’ in terms of wellbeing or ‘salvation’ as in the Christian teaching on deliverance from sin. Either way, connections between disunity and resistance in Constantine’s rhetoric should be viewed as a potentially threatening development in his responses to the schism at this stage. Such a possibility of danger for Christians is underlined in the same letter (App. 3) where Constantine described Caecilian’s opponents in terms evoking the older charge of Christian obstinacy (obnixe ac pertinaciter).88 Combined with the second adverb pertinaciter (‘very firmly, very tenaciously, persistently’), the force of Constantine’s negative posture against the Donatist’s appeal becomes clearer. For the emperor, that appeal represented resistance against his will as much as an episcopal authority. This point is explicit in the second appearance

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of obnixe in this letter, where the word is directly linked with the prolonging of discord (tot et tanta nimium obnixe dissensiones protrahere).89 After all, it was at Constantine’s initiative that the bishops came together for the purpose of making a decision. Likewise, it was Constantine who granted the bishops relative independence to conduct the hearing and render their verdict ‘in accordance with the most sacred law’, and who ratified their decision by accepting a report with their sworn statements.90 Above all, the emperor expected that such a decision would be accepted by all, thus ending the schism. We might dismiss this language as mere grandiloquence if it only appeared here in the letter to ‘Aelafius’, and if this document’s genuineness could be conclusively denied. However, this same terminology of obstinate resistance appears repeatedly in his remaining letters dealing with the schism whose authenticity is better established. Its use, therefore, seems quite intentional. In the letter summoning the bishop of Syracuse to the Council of Arles, Constantine referred to the opposing parties ‘who were contending stubbornly and persistently’ (ἐνστατικῶς καὶ ἐπιμόνως διαγωνιζομένων) and who ought to be summoned to Rome.91 The emperor’s use of this language to describe the initial schism was applied retroactively after the decision at Rome had been given, and so reflected Constantine’s view of continuing ecclesiastical division rather than what he believed upon first being informed of its existence. He also described those determined to be schismatics in this letter as ‘[forgetting] their own salvation and the reverence they owe to their most holy religion’.92 The same double meaning exists in Greek as in Latin regarding the use of σωτηρίας. As in the other letter, the emperor could have been referring to ‘salvation’ or ‘safety’. He also alluded to protracted obstinacy on the part of those who ‘even now do not cease to prolong their private enmities, being unwilling to conform to the judgment already delivered’ (ἔτι καὶ νῦν τὰς ἰδίας ἔχθρας παρατείνειν οὐ παύονται, μὴ βουλόμενοι τῇ ἤδη ἐξενεχθείσῃ κρίσει συντίθεσθαι).93 Constantine’s threat to punish the Donatists for resisting his extended hand of mercy appears to a greater extent in the letter to the Caecilianist bishops after the Council of Arles.94 Expressing approval of the bishops’ confirmation of the earlier verdict with their latest decision, Constantine took this outcome as evidence that God Himself had overcome the problems contributing to the dispute.95 As further confirmation of this, the emperor pointed to his own experience of God’s undeserved favour despite his ‘many obvious defects in righteousness’.96 Such divine clemency, according to Constantine, was even available to those who had ‘in a manner withdrawn from the truth and to a certain degree [had] brought forward weapons against it, and [had] joined themselves with the nations’.97 Thus, due to the Donatists’ appeals against two episcopal decisions, Constantine essentially equated this faction of disfavoured Christians with their pagan persecutors. He repeated a similar charge near this letter’s end where the Donatists were portrayed as ‘attendants of the devil’ who ‘[had] in a monstrous manner burst forth against God himself’.98 Because, according to the emperor, ‘the correct judgment was of no profit to them’ (sed non profuit apud eos recta diiudicatio), then ‘the clemency of Christ likewise will have withdrawn’ (abscesserit

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Christi clementia).99 So, too, then, the imperial clemency of the protector and patron of Christians could also be withdrawn. Yet Constantine also expressed hope that the greatest resistance might still be subdued: ‘even where the greatest hardness of mind (maxima durities animi) was implanted, it would be possible to restrain it’.100 At the same time, the Donatists’ repeated appeals (described by Constantine here as vesania perseverat, or ‘persisting madness’) demonstrated to the emperor the unlikelihood that they would avail themselves of any leniency. Constantine’s language to describe the Donatists intensified from conjuring images of persecution to implying that their continued intransigence constituted an actual revolt against imperial authority. In a letter to Domitius Celsus, the new vicarius in Africa between 315 and 316, Constantine continued referring to Donatist ‘persistence’ (perseverare) and ‘sedition’ (seditionis).101 It appears that the schism in Africa raised a violent tumult planned allegedly by Maenalius, whose bishopric is unknown and whom the emperor described as persistent (perseverare) in his defiance.102 Constantine opened his letter to Celsus by approving the vicarius’ following of imperial orders to deal with this planned sedition (seditionis).103 That the Donatists were party to such ‘abominable business’ (nefarias res) was all but proven in the emperor’s mind when they left the imperial court without being officially dismissed. He wrote, ‘They have confessed by this most foul deed that they hurried back to those things which they had both committed before and now persist (perseverant) in doing’.104 Due to the threat of organised violence stemming from the continuing ecclesiastical division, Constantine stated his intention to intervene directly. First, he declared that he would come to Africa and demonstrate to all sides ‘the sort of reverence that is to be applied to the supreme divinity and what kind of cult pleases him’.105 Since the issue at hand was disunity, the emperor probably meant by this statement that he (or perhaps an official representative) would personally attend to any efforts to restore harmony. Second, he vowed to fully investigate the facts of the matter even suggesting that he would bring to light the case’s hidden facts.106 This suggests he took the Donatists’ earlier charges of shenanigans at Rome under Miltiades seriously enough to warn here against any similar attempts to manipulate a fair outcome. Finally, he threatened those who failed to worship God properly and incited others by their poor example.107 If the message that ecclesiastical conflict could not be allowed to remain was not yet coming through clearly enough, Constantine alluded to martyrdom and appeared to imply (against Donatist claims to be the ‘church of the martyrs’) that he alone had the authority to decide who could claim that honour: And as it is adequately clear that no one is able to procure the blessings of martyrdom in a manner that is seen to be strange and inconsistent with the truth of religion, those whom I recognize to be in opposition to divine law and religion itself and discover those criminals who are violent against reverent worship, without any doubt I will cause them to suffer the merited destruction of their madness and rash obstinacy.108

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For the emperor, no one who refused to reconcile with churches recognising the episcopal claims of Caecilian (thus remaining in schism) could take refuge in the honours of martyrdom, because any hardship or suffering experienced as a result was richly deserved. To this point in our surviving evidence, Constantine had only written in this way to his own officials who could be expected to comply or to Caecilianists who might applaud the implications of such severe language against their opponents. Yet similar rhetoric appears in the emperor’s letter to some Donatist bishops in May 315.109 Constantine had initially granted a Donatist’s request that a further hearing of their case take place in Africa itself where their faction was strong. However, according to this letter, the emperor had changed his mind. He still intended to grant another hearing, but with qualifications. The new inquiry was to be held at the imperial court in either Italy or Gaul (exactly where the Donatists probably hoped to avoid having to return).110 He also again claimed the right to choose who would preside, this time selecting from among imperial officials.111 The reason he gave for these changes was that he claimed to see through the Donatist’s request that the hearing occur in Africa, asserting that he knew: certain ones from [their party were] amply full of trouble and in [their] obstinate mind[s] (obstinato animo) [had] very little respect for the upright judgment and the least regard for what relates to unbiased truth, perhaps coming over here [with their request] so that if it is investigated [in Africa] the matter will not be what is demanded by truth, and further, that this divisive business might come forth through your excessive obstinacy (nimia vestra obstinatione) in such a way that it displeases the heavenly divinity and greatly hinders my own judgment, which I desire to continue (perseverare) always unblemished.112 After two episcopal verdicts had decided in favour of Caecilian, Constantine was convinced that the matter should have been dropped and ecclesiastical unity restored in North Africa. But the continued petitions, requests, and accusations by the Donatists—as well as the discovery of the apparent plot by Maenalius to lead a riot—protracted and intensified the schism at a critical moment for Constantine. Thus, the emperor viewed such ‘obstinacy’ in terms of resistance and sedition, believing that he needed to take a stronger and more direct hand to resolve the matter. He was particularly concerned about divine favour at this juncture since the conflict with Licinius soon erupted into open war.113 If Constantine anticipated waging war against another rival, he needed assurance that God would accompany him then just as before when he defeated Maxentius. But he could not expect this as long as a schism hindered the performance of proper worship. Constantine may also have viewed the approach of another civil war as itself signifying a loss of God’s favour because of the schism. In that case, the division still had to be resolved if Constantine were to re-gain God’s blessing and thus be victorious in battle.114

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The emperor next commissioned two bishops, Eunomius and Olympus, to mediate the selection of a candidate for the see of Carthage that might satisfy both sides and end the schism. However, these episcopal emissaries only succeeded in acquitting Caecilian of any wrongdoing and sparking a riot in Carthage. Each party was ordered to appear before Constantine in Rome, where he was present during the summer of 315. Caecilian failed to appear, and the case was moved to Milan where the emperor rendered his verdict in favour of the Caecilianist cause. Caecilian returned to Carthage with imperial support, but the dominant Donatist party stirred up further rioting against him. It is at this point, late in 315 or early 316, that Constantine threatened to resolve the whole matter personally.115 That imperial journey was never made, as Constantine and Licinius went to war in autumn 316. Even so, the issue seems to have been settled in Caecilian’s favour from Constantine’s point of view. According to Augustine, who wrote about 90 years later, Constantine established a law in November 316 that called for the confiscation of churches owned by Donatists while claiming their assets for the imperial treasury.116 Noel Lenski refers to this piece of legislation as an ‘order of union’ and dates it to early 317, but there is no indication from the text that this was the type of legislation published by Constantine.117 Lenski also cites brief passages in two other letters by Augustine in support of this ‘order of union’, but neither of these suggests that this legislation was anything other than an order of confiscation. While Augustine’s Letter 93 adds that the confiscation of property involved the ‘possessions of those who lost their case and were stubbornly opposed to unity’, this does not refer to any new law compelling unity.118 Additionally, Letter 105 of Augustine refers to a ‘severe law’ passed by Constantine against the Donatists, but the context indicates that this is the same order of confiscation rather than a decree of union.119 Between 317 and 321, a period of repression against the Donatists is said to have followed.120 While violence probably occurred, surviving evidence does not support the assumption that Leontius and Ursatius were acting directly under Constantine’s orders.121 That argument will not be repeated here; it will only be mentioned that the order of confiscation probably did provoke violence when it was resisted and that the situation could have gotten out of control so that deaths did occur.

Constantine’s rhetoric of compromise during schism Whatever be the changes in the force of Constantine’s words in his letters concerning ecclesiastical unity, it is plain from these documents that he was not going to make Christians agree with each other at the point of a sword. Having gone beyond toleration, protection, and even patronage of Christians to self-identifying as one of their numbers, the emperor was in an awkward position when it came to dealing with their internal quarrels. While Constantine believed such conflicts placed both the empire and himself at risk of divine punishment, he could not violently compel Christian acquiescence to his ecclesiastical policies for this same reason. His only option was to persuade them to reconcile through their own customary institutional mechanisms of authority and discipline. But when

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the hearing in Rome failed to resolve the dispute in North Africa, Constantine’s response communicated displeasure with what he viewed as resistance but also signalled his willingness to compromise along with the expectation that these divided Christians do the same. He acknowledged (without endorsing) Donatist charges of miscarried justice by summoning a larger gathering of bishops at which he would present himself in Arles; he also granted these representatives of both sides the use of the cursus publicus and invited a certain number of attendants to accompany them and see to their needs.122 Furthermore, Constantine granted them liberty at both episcopal assemblies to reach their own decisions according to established ecclesiastical norms.123 In return, the emperor expected their assent to attend each gathering, a full investigation resulting in a just decision that he believed should restore unity, and that peace and order in the bishops’ respective jurisdictions would prevail in their absence.124 When the Council of Arles also failed to bring peace, the negativity in Constantine’s rhetoric reached greater levels of intensity. But at the same time, as early as immediately after Arles in late summer or autumn 314, the emperor also began calling for patience on the part of Caecilianist Christians who co-operated (at least to some extent) with his desire to resolve the schism: Indeed, most beloved brothers, although they are seen caught in these very things, nonetheless, you who follow the Lord and Saviour must exercise patience (patientiam), giving them even now the choice of what they think should be preferred. And if you see that they persist (persevare) in these ways, set out directly with these whom God has judged worthy to revere him; depart and return to your own proper habitation, and remember [to pray] for me that our Saviour may always have mercy on me.125 The ‘patience’ that Constantine exhorted the Catholic bishops to exercise was characterised by forbearance, endurance, and self-restraint. They were not to act by themselves upon the emperor’s threatening words in this letter but to leave enforcement of their verdict in the hands of the imperial administration: I have otherwise directed my men to bring these unspeakable deceivers of religion onward to my court, so that they may stay there and learn that death is worse for them. I have also sent a letter to the man who maintains the prefecture in Africa as vicarius, saying that, whatever men he finds of a similar insanity he should send to my court, so that, when our God has made the case so clear, they will not continue to do those things which may provoke heavenly providence to the greatest anger.126 This demonstrated Constantine’s understanding that existing ecclesiastical structures and procedures lacked the sufficient ability to compel a resolution. However, his authority as emperor could make up for this deficiency: he informed these bishops that imperial power would see to the enforcement of their decisions independently made at his summons and provision. This would later prove historically

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significant, but at the time in question it was simply a practical measure taken within the range of the emperor’s authority for the purpose of restoring ecclesiastical unity. But by the time another year had passed, Constantine further modified his policy. The alleged discovery of Maenalius’ plot to organise a riot, combined with some Donatists leaving the imperial court without being officially dismissed, sufficiently proved their guilt in the emperor’s view. Yet, rather than order his vicarius (Celsus) to take additional measures to punish or bring them back to court, Constantine instructed Celsus to disregard them. This change, however, was made with the understanding that the emperor would take the matter in hand upon his arrival: a trip that was never taken.127 He did not intend to simply allow continued Donatist resistance to remain unaddressed. According to our next available evidence, which is dated to early May 321, Constantine had adjusted his policy of patience yet again within the intervening five or six years as he seemed to actually admit failure in regards to the schism.128 The Donatists appeared to overpower Constantine’s every attempt to resolve the schism: But because our intention was not able to overcome the power of wickedness mingled [in them], although it clings obstinately (pervicaciter) in only a few minds and in this vileness they still plead in a way favourable to themselves, so that the failing in which they have delighted may not be wrenched wholly from them.129 Therefore, the emperor continued, it is worthy that we aim, while this entire matter remains seated in a few, for the mercy of Almighty God to be applied gently toward the people. For we ought to look for the remedy from the one to whom all good prayers and deeds are returned.130 To underscore his meaning, Constantine added: While the actual heavenly medicine may go forth, our resolution is to be moderated so far that we cultivate patience (patientiam) and whatever their arrogance attempts or does in the face of their customary excesses, we may endure it all bravely and with tranquillity.131 Apparently out of viable options by 321 for dealing with the schism, Constantine now informed the Caecilianists there was nothing he could do concerning their opponents. He wrote that he would join these Christians and his own governors in patiently awaiting the direct intervention of divine justice towards the Donatists. In the meantime, Caecilianists were instructed to let no injustice [perpetrated against them by the Donatists] be repaid in the same way; for it is a foolish hand to grasp the vengeance which we ought

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to reserve for God, most especially when our faith ought to be assured that whatever is suffered from the raging madness (furore) of such people, it will surely be efficacious for the grace of martyrdom before God.132 In other words, no matter what cause Caecilianists might have for complaint against the Donatists, Christians were to patiently endure any evil perpetrated on them by other Christians with the character of those who had earlier suffered at the hands of pagans. This was Constantine’s second reference to the so-called Caecilianist martyrdom. Earlier, he had denied that the Donatists could rightfully identify themselves in this way on the basis of his own view that their continuing in schism could not reflect true worship.133 Here, in this letter of 321, the emperor blurred any distinction between martyrs (those who died for the faith of Christ) and confessors (those who suffered in some way but remained alive) by applying broadly the label of martyrdom to Caecilianists who ‘suffered’ as a result of Donatist ‘madness’.134 He attempted to extend the esteem associated with martyrs to those who ostensibly suffered for their willingness to obey the emperor through passive compromise with their enemies. The further working out of this patience policy of Constantine’s can be seen nearly a decade later in his letter of 5 February 330 to 12 named Caecilianist bishops from the North African province of Numidia (now containing parts of Libya, Algeria, and Tunisia).135 The emperor commended these bishops for surrendering control of a church in the city of Cirta (now an archaeological site near modern Constantine, Algeria) to some Donatists who allegedly had taken forceful possession of the property. By refusing to assert their claims on the land, the Caecilianists—according to Constantine—had kept the peace from being broken by ‘seditions without interruption in the midst of a multitude like [the Donatists] who might be incited to further tumult’ so that ‘something might come forth which it may necessary to stop’.136 While by this point the emperor was no longer willing to intervene, he tried to assure the bishops that their ‘patience’ would work to the even greater detriment of their opponents as they left vengeance to God.137 To provide assurance of more immediate value, Constantine also offered to reward their patience by honouring the request that another church be constructed for their use as a replacement for the property allegedly lost to the Donatists.138

Conclusion When Constantine learned that Christians in North Africa were experiencing division, he acted quickly to help them resolve their disputes. But the failures of the hearing at Rome and the Council of Arles to voluntarily restore unity aroused the emperor’s displeasure. Constantine blamed the Donatists who had resisted the decisions of both episcopal assemblies and viewed their resolute stand as the resistance of his will in alignment with God’s own judgment as rendered in the two verdicts. The emperor expressed this perspective in terms of ‘obstinacy’ reminiscent of earlier Roman authorities who had punished Christians for refusing to participate in the required acts of sacrifice. Such requirements, from the official

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point of view, offered those accused of activities deemed subversive the opportunity to demonstrate their loyalty to the established order under the emperors and gods of Rome. The order to sacrifice was extended in the mid-third century to include all the inhabitants of the empire at a time when various kinds of disasters threatened the Roman world. Jews were exempt due to Roman acknowledgement of ancient traditions, but Christians were viewed with suspicion as a relatively recent and seditious cult. The behaviour of those Christians who maintained their refusal to comply was characterised by officials, from the early second through early fourth centuries, in terms of reckless stubbornness or ‘obstinacy’. Constantine’s use of similar language describing Donatist conduct as early as spring 314 continued to appear in subsequent imperial letters addressing the schism mainly until about 316. There can be little doubt he did not intend to communicate any actual plans to persecute the Donatists, but his rhetoric was likely received as ominous against the background of Christians’ previous experiences of persecution in North Africa. Certainly, the emperor wished it known that the continuation of the ecclesiastical division was not an acceptable state of affairs. But the disputing factions in North Africa could not reach any accommodation, and between the years 317 and 321 the situation deteriorated into violence anyway. If Constantine were indeed to avoid the use of force against Christians at a critical time in his own conflict with Licinius, then he had to temper his stern language towards the Donatists with prudent solicitations to exercise patience directed at Caecilianists. Yet, the schism continued in spite of the emperor’s effort. By 330, Constantine was ruling the whole empire alone and had become immersed in even greater challenges among Christians in the East. He acknowledged his inability to end the schism in North Africa and declared that he would patiently wait for divine justice against the Donatists while continuing to support Caecilianists.

Notes 1 For example, see W.H.C. Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church: A Study of a Conflict from the Maccabees to Donatus (Cambridge: James Clarke, 2008 [1965]), 11, 168–169; Timothy Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981), 20; Harold Drake, Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), 140– 141; Robert Louis Wilken, The Christians as the Romans Saw Them (2nd edn.; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003), 22–24; Jonathan Bardill, Constantine, Divine Emperor of the Christian Golden Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 76. 2 For example, see Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.21 (ἐνστατικῶς καὶ ἐπιμόνως διαγωνιζομένων); Opt., App. 3 (obnixe ac pertinaciter); cf. Plin. Ep. 10.96.3 (pertinaciam certe et inflexibilem obstinationem). 3 In addition to the two examples in n2 above, see Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.22 (ἔτι καὶ νῦν τὰς ἰδίας ἔχθρας παρατείνειν οὐ παύονται, μὴ βουλόμενοι), 10.6.5 (ἐν αὐτῇ τῇ μανίᾳ ἐπιμένειν); Opt., App. 3 (siquidem ea agere persistant ... tot et tanta nimium obnixe dissensiones protrahere perviderem); Opt., App. 5 (maxima durities animi ... quae in ipsos tanta vesania perseverat ... quae vis malignitatis in eorundem pectoribus perseverat ... ac si eos in hisdem videritis perseverare); Opt., App. 6 (obstinato animo ... nimia vestra obstinatione); Opt., App. 7 (perseverare ... et nunc agere

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8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

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perseverant ... suae obstinationisque temerariae); Opt., App. 9 (illam sceleris infusi paucorum licet sensibus pervicaciter inhaerentem); Opt., App. 10 (sua malitia manere). Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18–20. Opt., App. 3: obnixe ac pertinaciter respondendum aestimaverunt, quod enim omnis causa non fuisset audita, sed potius idem episcopi quodam loco se clausissent et, prout ipsis aptum fuerat. Plin., Ep. 10.96–97. Further reading on Pliny’s letters and correspondence with Trajan in A.N. Sherwin-White, The Letters of Pliny: A Social and Historical Commentary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966); Matthias Ludolph, Epistolographie und Selbstdarstellung: Untersuchungen zu den ‘Paradebriefen’ Plinius des Jüngeren (Tübingen: Gunter Narr Verlag, 1997; Angelika Reichert, ‘Durchdachte Konfusion: Plinius, Trajan und das Christentum’, Zeitschrift für die Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 93:3/4 (2002), 227–250; Roy K. Gibson and Ruth Morello, Reading the Letters of Pliny the Younger: An Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012); Roman Literature under Nerva, Trajan, and Hadrian: Literary Interactions, A.D. 96-138 (Alice König and Christopher Whitton, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018); Daisy Dunn, The Shadow of Vesuvius: A Life of Pliny (New York: W.W. Norton, 2019). See also Philip A. Stadter, ‘Pliny and the Ideology of Empire: The Correspondence with Trajan’, Prometheus: Rivista di studi classici 32:1 (2006), 61–76; Carlos Noreña, ‘The Social Economy of Pliny’s Correspondence with Trajan’, American Journal of Philology 128 (2007), 239–277; Kathleen Coleman, ‘Bureaucratic Language in the Correspondence Between Pliny and Trajan’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 142 (2012), 189– 238; James Corke-Webster, ‘Trouble in Pontus: The Pliny-Trajan Correspondence on the Christians Reconsidered’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 147:2 (2017), 371–411. For recent studies of early Christian martyrdom and persecution, see Elizabeth A. Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory: Early Christian Culture Making (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004); G.E.M. de Ste. Croix, Christian Persecution, Martyrdom, and Orthodoxy (Michael Whitby and Joseph Streeter, eds.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); Contextualising Early Christian Martyrdom (Jakob Engberg, Uffe Holmsgaard, and Anders Klostergaard Peterson, eds.; Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2011); Candida R. Moss, Ancient Christian Martyrdom: Diverse Practices, Theologies, and Traditions (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012); Heirs of Roman Persecution: Studies on a Christian and ParaChristian Discourse in Late Antiquity (Éric Fournier and Wendy Mayer, eds.; Abingdon: Routledge, 2020). Plin., Ep. 10.96.2–4. Justinian, Dig. 37.22.1, 48.4.1. Plin., Ep. 10.96.1–2. Plin., Ep. 10.96.3. Translation by Betty Radice: see Pliny: Letters, Vol. 2: Books 8-10, Panegyricus (LCL; Betty Radice, trans.; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1969), 287. Plin., Ep. 10.96.3. Plin., Ep. 10.96.3–6, 10.97. Corke-Webster, ‘Trouble in Pontus, 374–375. Timothy Barnes, ‘Legislation Against the Christians’, JRS 58:1/2 (1968), 32–50 at 48. Fergus Millar, Rome, the Greek World, and the East, Vol. 2: Government, Society, and Structure in the Roman Empire (Hannah M. Cotton and Guy M. Rogers, eds.; Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004), 34–38. G.E.M. de Ste. Croix, ‘Why Were the Early Christians Persecuted?—A Rejoinder’, Past and Present 27 (1964), 28–33 at 28. Emphasis in the original. For the instance to which Ste. Croix referred, see n19 below.

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18 Frank McLynn, Marcus Aurelius: A Life (Cambridge: Da Capo Press, 2009), 286– 305. 19 M. Aur., Med. 11.3: Οἵα ἐστὶν ἡ ψυχὴ ἡ ἕτοιμος, ἐὰν ἤδη ἀπολυθῆναι δέῃ τοῦ σώματος καὶ ἤτοι σβεσθῆναι ἢ σκεδασθῆναι ἢ συμμεῖναι. τὸ δὲ ἕτοιμον τοῦτο ἵνα ἀπὸ ἰδικῆς κρίσεως ἔρχηται, μὴ κατὰ ψιλὴν παράταξιν ὡς οἱ Χριστιανοί, ἀλλὰ λελογισμένως καὶ σεμνῶς καὶ ὥστε καὶ ἄλλον πεῖσαι, ἀτραγῴδως. 20 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 4.13.1–7. 21 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 4.13.6. 22 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 5.21.1–4. This incident does not suggest, however, that Commodus was hostile to Christianity. Eusebius begins the narrative of Apollonius’ martyrdom by referring to favourable conditions for Christians under Commodus. A wellknown concubine of Commodus named Marcia is traditionally named as a patron of Christians who defended their interests to the emperor, though her own religious beliefs are unknown for certain. See Cass. Dio 73.4; cf. Anise K. Strong, ‘A Christian Concubine in Commodus’ Court?’, Eugesta 4 (2014), 238–259. 23 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 6.28, 6.34. 24 J.B. Rives, ‘The Decree of Decius and the Religion of Empire’, JRS 89 (1989), 135– 154 at 135–137. The relevant primary source material is catalogued in this article on pages 135–136 and need not be reproduced here. 25 John R. Knipfling, ‘The Libelli of the Decian Persecution’, HThR 16:4 (October 1923), 345–390. Candida Moss noted that three further libelli were discovered after the publication of Knipfling’s article. For this, see Candida Moss, The Myth of Persecution: How Early Christians Invented a Story of Martyrdom (New York: HarperOne, 2013), 281–282n25. Around the time Knipfling’s article was published, a Classics professor at Luther College (Decatur, Iowa) Orlando W. Qualley purchased ten papyri that turned out to be Decian libelli while participating in an archaeological dig sponsored by the University of Michigan in Egypt. Nine of these were re-discovered in January 2014 among Qualley’s papers acquired by the archives at Luther College after his death. One has gone missing. One of the remaining nine (P. Luther 4) is published and translated in W. Graham Claytor, ‘A Decian Libellus at Luther College (Iowa)’, Tyche: Beiträge zur Alten Geschichte Papyrologie und Epigraphik 30 (2015), 13–19. 26 Cyprian, De laps. 8. 27 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 6.39–42; cf. Charles Lett Feltoe, The Letters and Other Remains of Dionysius of Alexandria (Eugene: Wipf & Stock, 2010 [1904]); David J. Devore, ‘Character and Convention in the Letters of Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History’, Journal of Late Antiquity 7:2 (Fall 2014), 223–252. 28 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 6.41.3. 29 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 6.41.7. 30 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 6.41.17. 31 See Christopher P. Jones, Between Pagan and Christian (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2014), 61–77 at 61. 32 Jás Elsner, ‘Sacrifice in Late Roman Art’ in Greek and Roman Animal Sacrifice: Ancient Victims, Modern Observers (Christopher A. Faraone and F.S. Naiden, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 120–166 at 159–160. On the prevalence of sacrificial ritual throughout the ancient world, see Sacred Killing: The Archaeology of Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East (Anne Porter and Glenn M. Schwartz, eds.; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2012); Diversity of Sacrifice: Form and Function of Sacrificial Practices in the Ancient World and Beyond (Carrie Ann Murray, ed.; Albany: State University of New York Press, 2016); Ritual Sacrifice in Ancient Peru (Elizabeth P. Benson and Anita G. Cook, eds.; Austin: University of Texas Press, 2001) and J.C. Heesterman, The Broken World of Sacrifice: An Essay in Ancient Indian Ritual (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). For sacrifice in the Roman Empire, see S.R.F. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in

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33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

43 44 45 46 47

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Asia Minor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 207–233; John Scheid, Romulus et ses frères: le collège des frères arvales, modèle du culte public dans la Rome des empereurs (Rome: Ecole Française de Rome Palais Farnèse, 1990); Jörg Rüpke, Die Religion der Römer (Munich: C.H. Beck, 2001); Ittaí Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford: Clarendon, 2002). On the plague, see Cyprian, De mort. 8, 14–16; cf. Kyle Harper, The Fate of Rome: Climate, Disease, and the End of an Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2019), 136–149. Plin., Ep. 10.96.5. Plin., Ep. 10.96.10. Plin., Ep. 10.97.1–2. Douglas Boin, A Social and Cultural History of Late Antiquity (Medford: WileyBlackwell, 2018), 78. Rives, ‘Decree of Decius’, 138n16. For example, see Justin, Apol. 23; Tert., Apol. 18–19; Origen, C. Cels. 8.12. But see also Tert., Apol. 7 where Tertullian claims that Christians date their religion from the reign of Tiberius (A.D. 14–37) and Luke 3:1, 21–23. Wilken, Christians as the Romans Saw Them, 122. Plin., Ep. 10.96.2; cf. Tac., Ann. 15.44. See also Tert., Apol. 7; Origen, C. Cels. 8.17, 73–75. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.11.3–7. See ‘L. Mussius Aemilianus’ in PLRE, 23. See also Reinhard Selinger, The Mid-Third Century Persecutions of Decius and Valerian (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2004); Lincoln H. Blumell, ‘The Date of P.Oxy. XLIII 3119, the Deputy-Prefect Lucius Mussius Aemilianus, and the Persecution of Christians by Valerian and Gallienus’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 186 (2013), 111–113; David Potter, ‘Decius and Valerian’ in Imagining Emperors in the Later Roman Empire (Diederik P.W. Burgersdijk and Alan J. Ross, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2018), 18–38. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.11.6–11; cf. Plin., Ep. 10.96.2–4. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.11.10. Translation by J.E.L. Oulton: see Eusebius: Ecclesiastical History, Vol. 2: Books 6-10 (LCL; J.E.L. Oulton, trans.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1932), 159. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.11.10–11. On exile, see Julia Hillner, Prison, Punishment, and Penance in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 194–273. Lactant., De mort. pers. 10–24, 33–35, 43–47; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 8–9. Lactant., De mort. pers. 10; cf. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.50–52, where Constantine told a similar story in his letter to the eastern provinces. The disrupted auspices in Lactantius’ account, and Constantine’s memory of a failed consultation of Apollo’s oracle, may refer to two separate incidents. See Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, ‘An Oracle of Apollo at Daphne and the Great Persecution’, Classical Philology 99 (2004), 57–77. Digeser’s argument is sound if it can be determined Diocletian’s consultation of Apollo at Miletus (which occurred separate from the failed auspices; see Lactant., De mort. pers. 11.7–8) described the same instance recalled by Constantine. For contrasting views on Galerius’ role in the persecution, see Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 15–27; P.S. Davies, ‘The Origin and Purpose of the Persecution of A.D. 303’, JThS 40:1 (April 1989), 66–94; Bill Leadbetter, Galerius and the Will of Diocletian (London: Routledge, 2009); cf. Bardill, Constantine, 78n293. Lactant., De mort. pers. 10.1–4; cf. 44.5, ‘heavenly sign’ (caeleste signum). For the view of early Christians that sacrifice to the gods meant worshipping demons, see EEC, 325–327; Stephen Benko, Pagan Rome and the Early Christians (Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1986), 103–139. Lactant., De mort. pers. 10.5; cf. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 8.4.1–4. On religious practices in the Roman military, see for example Tomasz Dziurdzik, ‘Roman Soldiers in Official Court

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The doctrine of resistance and compromise Ceremonies: Performance, Participation, and Religious Experience’ in The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome (Krysztof Ulanowski, ed.; Leiden: Brill, 2016), 376–386; Yann Le Bohec, The Imperial Roman Army (Raphael Bate, trans.; London: Routledge, 2001), 231–252; Mark Hebblewhite, The Emperor and the Army in the Later Roman Empire, A.D. 235-395 (Abingdon: Routledge, 2017), 140–179. Lactant., De mort. pers. 10.5. Lactant., De mort. pers. 10.6; Barnes, The New Empire of Diocletian and Constantine (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1982), 55–56, 64. Lactant., De mort. pers. 10.6–11.3. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 19–21. Leadbetter, Galerius, 114–155, esp. 132ff. Lactant., De mort. pers. 11.4. This language of Galerius’ ‘madness’ is Lactantius’, and not Diocletian’s. Lactant., De mort. pers. 11.6: Quidam proprio adversus Christianos odio inimicos deorum et hostes religionum publicarum tollendos esse censuerunt. Lactant., De mort. pers. 11.7. Lactant., De mort. pers. 11.8: quoniam nec amicis nec Caesari nec Apollini poterat reluctari, hanc moderationem tenere conatus est, ut eam rem sine sanguine transigi iuberet, cum Caesar vivos cremari vellet qui sacrificio repugnassent. Lactant., De mort. pers. 11.5. Lactant., De mort. pers. 12.1–5. Lactant., De mort. pers. 12.3. Lactant., De mort. pers. 12.4. Lactant., De mort. pers. 12.5. Lactant., De mort. pers. 12.5–13.1; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 8.2.4. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 8.2.4–5. Lactant., De mort. pers. 13.1; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 8.2.4; Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 22. Lactant., De mort. pers. 13.1–3; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 8.5.1. Neither Lactantius nor Eusebius provided the name of this ‘certain person’. For his name and the traditions associated with it, see Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 22n69. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 8.5.1. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 8.5.1. Mark D. Smith, ‘Capital Punishment and Burial in the Roman Empire’ in Bethsaida in Archaeology, History and Culture: A Festschrift in Honor of John T. Greene (J. Harold Ellens, ed.; Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars, 2014), 395–436 at 398–414. Lactant., De mort. pers. 14.1–7. Lactant., De mort. pers. 14.1–15.5; Barnes, New Empire, 64. Lactant., De mort. pers. 15.6–7. On the territories controlled by Maximian and Constantius at this time, see Barnes, New Empire, 196–197. Lactant., De mort. pers. 33–34; Euseb., Hist. eccl. 8.17.3–10. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 9.1–6 (the decree itself appears in 9.3–6). For Sabinus, see ‘Sabinus 3’ in PLRE, 791. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 9.9a.1–9. For the dates of this document along with Sabinus’ letter, see Corcoran, Empire of the Tetrarchs, 148–149, 152. For Daia’s rescript against the Christians, written supposedly written in response to their petitions asking for the removal of their Christian populations, see Euseb., Hist. eccl. 9.7.3–14; Lactant., De mort. pers. 36.3. Galerius: voluntas ... perseverarent (Lactant., De mort. pers. 34.2, 32.4). Sabinus/ Daia: ἡ τινῶν ἔνστασις καὶ τραχυτάη βουλὴ ... τοιούτων ἐνστάσεων ἀναχωρήσαιεν (Euseb., Hist. eccl. 9.1.4, 9.1.5). Daia: εἰ μὲν οὖν τινες εἶεν τῇ αὐτῇ διεσιδαιμονίᾳ δ ιαμένοντες ... τοιοῦτον ἔθος διαφυλάξαι ἐπιμεληθέντων τραχέως (Euseb., Hist. eccl. 9.9a.5, 9.9a.7).

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78 Barnes, New Empire, 196–199; Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 38. See also Simon Corcoran, ‘Maxentius: An Emperor in Rome’, Antiquité Tardive 25 (2017), 59–74. I am grateful to Dr Corcoran for providing this article. 79 Opt., De schism. Donatist. 1.23: Petitis a me saeculo iudicium, cum ego ipse Christi iudicium expectum; cf. Opt., App. 5: meum iudicium postulant, qui ipse iudicium Christ expecto. 80 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18–20. For the Greek, see Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18. 81 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.19–20. 82 Barnes, New Empire, 71. 83 Barnes gives the date for this hearing between 30 September and 2 October, while Lenski opts for 2–4 October. See Barnes, New Empire, 241; Noel Lenski, ‘Imperial Legislation’ in The Donatist Schism: Controversy and Contexts (TTHC; Richard Miles, ed.; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2016), 199. 84 Opt., App. 3. 85 Opt., App. 3. 86 Opt., App. 3. 87 Opt., App. 3: quod neque respectus salutis suae neque, quod est maius, dei ominpotentis venerationem ante oculos suos velint ponere, siquidem ea agere persistant, quae non modo ad ipsorum dedecus infamiamque pertineant sed etiam his hominibus detrahendi dent facultatem, qui longe ab huiuscemodi sanctissima observantia sensus suos noscuntur avertere. Concerning the machinations of Miltiades, see Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 218–219. 88 Opt., App. 3: obnixe ac pertinaciter respondendum aestimeaverunt. See also Plin., Ep. 10.96.3. 89 Opt., App. 3. 90 Cf. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.20. 91 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.21: ἀλλὰ μὴν καὶ τούτων κληθέντων ἀπὸ τῆς Ἀϕρικῆς τῶν ἐξ ἐναντίας μοίρας καταλλήλως, ἐνστατικῶς καὶ ἐπιμόνως διαγωνιζομένων παρόντος τε καὶ τοῦ τῆς Ῥώμης ἐπισκόπου. 92 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.22: ἀλλʹ ἐπειδή, ὡς συμβαίνει, ἐπιλαθόμενοί τινες καὶ τῆς σωτηρίας τῆς ἰδίας καὶ τοῦ σεβάσματος τοῦ ὀφειλομένου τῇ ἁγιωτάτῃ αἱρέσει. Translation in Eusebius: Ecclesiastical History, vol. 2 (Oulton, trans.), 459. Both Barnes and Lenski place the date for the letter to Chrestus during spring 314. See Barnes, New Empire, 241–242; Lenski, ‘Imperial Legislation’ in Donatist Schism (Miles, ed.), 200. 93 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.22. 94 Opt., App. 5. 95 Opt., App. 5: aeterna et religiosa incomprehensibilis pietas dei nostri nequaquam permittit humanam condicionem diutius in tenebris oberrare neque patitur exosas quorundam voluntates usque in tantum per valere, ut non suis praeclarissimis luminibus denuo pandens iter salutare eas det ad regulam iustitiae converti. 96 Opt., App. 5. Translation in Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), 189. 97 Opt., App. 5. 98 Opt., App. 5: quid igitur sentiunt maligni homines officia, ut vere dixi, diaboli? ... o rabida furoris audacia! ... quae ab ipsis sentitur humanitas, qui in ipso deo inmanes prosilierunt? 99 Opt., App. 5. Abscesserit appears in both the perfect subjunctive (‘may have withdrawn’) and future perfect indicative (‘will have withdrawn’), and either alone would make sense. However, I have translated it using the future perfect as it fits better within the letter’s context. Edwards’ translation reflects the aoristic perfect (‘withdrew’), which does not appear in the original Latin. See Edwards, Against the Donatists (Edwards, trans. and ed.), 190. 100 Opt., App. 5: et hoc quidem, sanctissimi fratres, sperabam etiam in eis, quibus ingenita est maxima durities animi, posse rephrendi.

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101 Opt., App. 7. On Celsus, see ‘Domitius Celsus 8’ in PLRE, 195. For the letter’s date, see p. 41 in this volume. 102 Opt., App. 7; cf. Opt., De schism. Donatist. 1.13, 1.26. 103 Opt., App. 7: proxima etiam gravitatis tuae scripta testata sunt, quibus inhaerentum te iussioni nostrae de merito seditionis ipsorum eoque tumultu, quem apparabant, inhibitum esse memorasti, frater carissime. 104 Opt., App. 7: hoc ipso turpissimo facto confessi ad ea se redire properare, quae et antea fecerant et nunc agere perseverant. 105 Opt., App. 7: quod cum favente pietate divina Africam venero; plenissime universis tam Caeciliano quam his, qui contra eum agere videntur, lecto dilucido iudicio demonstraturus sum, quae et qualis summae divinitati sit adhibenda veneratio et cuismodi cultus delectare videatur. 106 Opt., App. 7: adhibito etiam diligenti examine ea, quae nunc aliqui exinde inlecebris mentis ignorantiaeque occultare se putant, plenissime sum reperturus atque in lucem facturus vinere. 107 Opt., App. 7. For the Latin text, see p. 57n163 in this volume. 108 Opt., App. 7: cumque satis clareat neminem posse beatitudines martyris eo genere conquirere, quod alienum a veritate religionis et incongruum esse videatur, eos, quos contra fas et religionem ipsam recognovero reosque violentes conpetentis venerationis deprehendero, sine ulla dubitatione insaniae suae obstinationisque temerariae faciam merita exitia persolvere. 109 Opt., App. 6. For the letter’s date, see p. 41 in this volume. 110 For Constantine’s whereabouts at this time, see Barnes, New Empire, 72–73. 111 See also Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.19, 23–24; August., Ep. 88.4. 112 Opt., App. 6: quoniam scio quosdam ex vestris turbulentos satis et obstinato animo rectum iudicium et integrae veritatis rationem minime respicere ac per hoc venire forsitan, ut, si ibidem cognoscatur, non ut condecet et veritatis ratio expostulat, res finem accipiat atque aliquid tale eveniat nimia vestra obstinatione, quod et divinitati caelesti displiceat et existimationi meae, quam semper inlibitam cupio perseverare, plurimum inpediat. 113 Orig. Const. 5.13–16; cf. Timothy Barnes, Constantine: Dynasty, Religion, and Power in the Later Roman Empire (Malden: Blackwell, 2014), 103–106. 114 Peter Herz includes civil war among other catastrophes experienced by the Romans under the Republic that helped establish a mentality of divine abandonment. See Peter Herz, ‘Emperors: Caring for the Empire and Their Successors’ in A Companion to Roman Religion (Jörg Rüpke, ed.; Oxford: Blackwell, 2011), 304–330 at 305. 115 For the chronology, see Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 59–60; Odahl, Constantine, 140–141. 116 August., Ep. 88.3. For the date of Augustine’s letter between 406 and 411, see The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century, Part II Vol. 1: Letters 1-99 (Roland Teske, trans.; John E. Rotelle, ed.; New York: New City Press, 2001), 351. The quoted passages above are Teske’s translation. 117 August., Ep. 88.3. 118 August., Ep. 93.14. 119 August., Ep. 105.9. 120 See pp. 73–76 in this volume; cf. David C. Alexander, ‘Rethinking Constantine’s Interaction with the North African “Donatist” Schism’ in Rethinking Constantine: History, Theology, and Legacy (Edward L. Smither, ed.; Eugene: Pickwick, 2014), 80–85 at 81. See also Lenski, ‘Imperial Legislation’ in Donatist Schism (Miles, ed.), 174–175 for the suggestion that the ‘order of union’ (i.e., the ‘order of confiscation’) resulted in open violence. 121 For a Donatist perspective of the violence involving these imperial officials, see p. 93n109 in this volume.

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Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.23; Opt., App. 3. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.19–20; Opt., App. 3. Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.18–20, 10.5.21–24; Opt., App. 3. Opt., App. 5: equidem, fratres carissimi, licet haec in ipsis videantur deprehensa, nihilominus vos, qui domini salvatoris sequimini viam, patientiam adhibete data his adhuc optione, quid putent deligendum. ac si eos in hisdem videritis perseverare, protinus cum his, quos dominus dignos cultui suo iudicavit, proficiscimini et redite ad proprias sedes meique mementote, ut mei salvator noster semper misereatur. Opt., App. 5: ceterum direxi meos homines, qui eosdem infandos deceptores religionis protinus ad comitatum meum perducant, ut ibi degant, ibi sibi mortem peius pervideant. dedi quoque litteras conpetentes ad eum, qui vicariam praefecturam per Africam tuetur, ut, quotquot huius insaniae similes invenerit, statim eos ad comitatum meum dirigat, ne ulterius sub tanta claritate dei nostri ea ab ipsis fiant, quae maximam iracundiam caelestis providentiae possint incitare. Opt., App. 7. Opt., App. 9. Opt., App. 9: sed quia vim illam sceleris infusi paucorum licet sensibus pervicaciter inhaerentum intentionis nostrae ratio non potuit edomare favente adhuc sibi huic nequitiae patrocinio, ut extorqueri sibi omnino non sinerent, in quo se deliquisse gauderent. Opt., App. 9: spectandum nobis est, dum totum hoc per paucos sedit, in populum omnipotentis dei misericordia mitigetur. inde enim remedium sperare debemus, cum omnia bona vota et facta referuntur. Opt., App. 9: verum dum caelestis medicina procedat, hactenus sunt consilia nostra moderanda, ut patientiam percolamus et, quicquid insolentia illorum pro consuetudine intemperantiae suae temptant aut faciunt, id totum tranquillitatis virtute toleremus. Opt., App. 9: nihil ex reciproco reponatur iniuriae; vindictam enim, quam deo servare debemus, insipientis est manibus usurpare, maxime cum debeat fides nostra confidere, quicquid ab huiusmodi hominum furore patietur, martyrii gratia apud deum esse valiturum. Opt., App. 7. Opt., App. 9. Opt., App. 10. Opt., App. 10: ad seditiones usque prorumperent et inter turbas atque concentus sui similes incitarent atque ita aliquid exsisteret, quod sedari non oporteret. Opt., App. 10. Opt., App. 10: vos tamen imitatores patientiae dei summi eorum malitiae placida mente ea, quae vestra sunt, relinquentes et potius locum vobis invicem alium, fiscalem scilicet, poscere.

5

The doctrine of resistance and compromise The ‘Arian controversy’

This chapter serves as part two of the analysis begun in Chapter 4 concerning Constantine’s verbal treatment of ecclesiastical division as a form of resistance, along with describing his attempts to work with Christians towards a satisfactory resolution through compromise. Chapter 3 argued for a change in the dominant metaphor used to address division among Christians, which appears in the emperor’s correspondence around 324. This shift, from symbolic language surrounding themes of rational thinking towards imagery that evoked physical well-being, clarified his specific expressed intentions regarding his vision of ecclesiastical unity. Around the same point in Constantine’s reign, there occurred two further developments in the rhetoric of his ecclesiastical correspondence. The first variation concerned the theme of obstinate resistance as described in Chapter 4: after 324, the emperor began applying this type of imagery in new ways and to address situations other than Christian divisions. For example, the letters that communicated Constantine’s religious policies to the East in autumn 324 still referred to the stubbornness of any who might resist.1 However, similar terminology was also used in both of these documents to express official disapproval of non-Christians who did not acknowledge God, who continued acting with hostility towards Christians, or who refused to restore confiscated property that belonged originally to Christians.2 He also began using this language in a positive sense towards Christians concerning their endurance of persecution as he promised restitution for any losses suffered through alleged previous actions by Licinius.3 This chapter focuses on a second variation, which has to do with Constantine’s use of what I have labelled ‘aesthetic arguments’ to articulate, explain, or justify imperial commands.4 Such statements were sometimes softened in their tone by being expressed in language related to ‘possibility’. This method of persuasive speech first appeared in Constantine’s letter to Alexander and Arius, just after he became aware of the nature and scope of the rift among eastern Christians. It also marked a contrast with the emperor’s immediate reaction about a decade earlier when he had received reports of the schism in North Africa. Whereas he previously expected obedience to his lawful will that no divisions be allowed to persist, he now anticipated resistance and chose immediately to present compromise as the means to restoring unity.5 Previous Roman commanders and emperors are recorded as having sometimes used aesthetic language in their spoken and written DOI: 10.4324/9781003215677-6

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utterances, examples of which will follow in this chapter’s first section. Yet by relative comparison, Constantine’s use of this type of speech is more extensive (due in part to the greater number of writings in his name that survive).6 It appears more than 30 times in imperial documents that can be dated from 324 to 337—the majority of which occur between 324 and 328.7 However, there are no known analyses of these documents for how their language shows Constantine using milder forms of verbal persuasion in his attempts at compelling divided Christians to restore ecclesiastical unity. The chapter will promote discussion in this area by focusing on the emperor’s early involvement with the theological crisis in the East, beginning late in 324 (when he wrote his letter to Alexander and Arius) until the controversy surrounding Eusebius of Caesarea’s aborted election as bishop of Antioch sometime in 327–328.8 This limited scope allows for a close examination of Constantine’s initial approach towards the ‘Arian Controversy’, so that the emperor’s pattern of engaging with ecclesiastical resistance can be established prior to his encounters with Athanasius which will be discussed in Chapter 6. But what is an ‘aesthetic argument’ and how can such language be spotted in these documents? The first section deals with this question concerning key terminology and the basic structure of this kind of speech. Here, the letter to Alexander and Arius will be the main focus of analysis, while each subsequent section of the chapter examines relevant documents in chronological order.

Aesthetic Language and Possibility in the Letter to Alexander and Arius The term ‘aesthetic’, as employed here, describes language used when speaking or writing of that which is judged ‘fitting’, ‘proper’, ‘seemly’, and so on (including negative usage such as ‘unseemly’ or ‘improper’).9 The following examples from Roman generals and emperors prior to Constantine are offered to illustrate what is meant here. Regardless of whether or not the statements in these examples are authentic, my argument concerning Constantine’s use of such language is unaffected due to the much stronger likelihood that the documents associated with his name are genuine. The late first-century B.C. historian Titus Livius (known as Livy) related an incident of rivalry between two early Roman consuls, Lucius Volumnius and Appius Claudius Caecus, during the Third Samnite War (c. 298–290 B.C.) for control of central Italy south of Rome.10 Both consuls were dispatched with their armies to confront an alliance of Etruscan, Samnite, and Gallic enemies threatening Rome, but according to Livy Volumnius was the better general. Volumnius took his legions and joined with Appius; the former receiving a warm welcome from all except apparently for Appius himself. The problem was that Volumnius claimed to have received a letter from Appius summoning his assistance, while Appius himself professed to know nothing about any request for aid. Volumnius replied that if the letter was a forgery, then he would depart immediately. Appius told his consular colleague to go ahead and leave, adding ‘for truly it is in no way fitting (etinem minime consentaneum est) that

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when, perhaps, you are hardly equal to your own war, you should boast of coming here to help others’.11 Tacitus, writing under Trajan in the early second century, described the end of Vespasian’s victorious confrontation with Vitellius during the so-called ‘year of the four emperors’ (A.D. 69) following Nero’s suicide on 9 June A.D. 68.12 Negotiations for Vitellius’ peaceful abdication in favour of Vespasian (r. A.D. 69–79) had broken down and further violence was expected. Flavius Sabinus, Vespasian’s brother, sent a centurion with a message for Vitellius accusing the latter of breaking their agreement. According to Sabinus, Vitellius should have gone to his wife’s house on the Aventine rather than his brother’s home overlooking the Forum. For Sabinus, it was a matter of political optics as it appeared to him in his communication that Vitellius’ movements indicated that he only pretended to step down in order to make way for Vespasian. By contrast, Sabinus told Vitellius that retiring to the Aventine rather than the Capitoline ‘would have befitted (convenisse) a private individual anxious to shun all appearance of imperial power’.13 The senatorial aristocrat Cassius Dio wrote appreciatively in the third century of Marcus Aurelius’ imperial virtues after describing the manner of this emperor’s death.14 Among the qualities that Dio praised was the emperor’s tolerance for the failings of others: so long as they had done anything good, he overlooked their offences and put them to work in areas where each was particularly skilled. Dio claimed that Marcus explained such forbearance in these terms: for he [the emperor] declared that it is impossible (ἀδύνατόν) for one to create such men as one desires to have, and so it is fitting (προσήκει) to employ those who are already in existence for whatever service each of them may be able to render to the state.15 The rescript on maximum prices (301)—produced by Diocletian in the names also of Maximian, Galerius, and Constantius—implies that excessive greed and dishonesty threatened to upset the fortune and blessings of peace achieved by great effort through military victories. According to a statement near the opening of this document, the people demanded that such ostensibly auspicious conditions ‘be faithfully arranged and fittingly adorned’ (dispone fideliter adque ornari decenter) and so justice through firm legislation must also accompany peace.16 Eusebius of Caesarea quoted from a rescript of Maximinus Daia (312), which was inscribed in a Greek translation from Latin on a bronze tablet in Tyre and threatened Christians with exile. Tyre was one of several cities that, according to this document, requested Daia to remove the Christians from among their populations. Daia praised these citizens lavishly for their zeal and devotion towards the gods, thus their cities (Tyre, in this case) ‘might be worthily called a pure temple and dwelling-place of the deathless gods’.17 With these illustrations of aesthetic language in mind, an ‘aesthetic argument’ refers to a form of verbal persuasion by which (in these cases) an individual with authority intended to communicate the reasonableness of complying with his wishes.18 I do not intend to suggest that Constantine made compelling aesthetic

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arguments to persuade others into compliance, nor is any evaluation of the validity or effectiveness of such speech by the emperor intended here. Rather, I am simply describing their structure and function as they appear in Constantine’s written correspondence. I also do not ignore the possibility that some who received the emperor’s words might disagree with his aesthetic sense: the fact that this theological conflict continued despite every attempt by Constantine to minimise its significance shows that imperial subjects could and did resist his determinations of what was or was not ‘fitting’, ‘worthy’, ‘proper’, and so on. However, Constantine would have appealed to a standard that could be accepted as widely as possible as a means of winning compliance. An aesthetic argument, therefore, appeals to a standard that is determined according to what the individual proposing it deems fitting, proper, and so on. There are two types of aesthetic argument that can be discerned in these imperial documents: normative and imitative. ‘Normative’ aesthetic arguments are based on appeals to a standard (determined by Constantine) of goodness, beauty, value, suitability, or what is pleasing. ‘Imitative’ aesthetic arguments call for assent on the basis of what the emperor held up as an example to be emulated. For instance, consider this imitative aesthetic argument from Constantine’s letter concerning the festival of Easter (dated June 325): ‘Indeed it was decreed unworthy to have fully observed that most holy festival following the custom of the Jews’.19 The emperor reasoned here and throughout this letter that Jewish practice (by which he referred to the calculation of Easter’s celebration by some Christians according to the time of Jewish Passover) was an ‘unworthy’ (ἀνάξιον) standard for Christians to imitate as they decided when to celebrate Easter. Discussion of this letter will continue at greater length in a subsequent section of this chapter. Of the two types, the imitative aesthetic argument appears most frequently in Constantine’s discourse and shows up first in the emperor’s letter to Alexander and Arius at the end of 324. The main object of this communication was to urge the disputing parties of eastern Christians associated with either Alexander or Arius to reconcile with one another according to the principles of compromise determined by Constantine, who put himself forward as a suitable mediator.20 By doing so, the emperor indicated a shift from command to compromise in his initial approach to ecclesiastical division. He proclaimed his intent to come between the contending factions in order to ‘change each into something useful’ (εἰς τὸ χρησιμώτερον ἕκαστον μεταστῆσαι).21 Thus, instead of dealing with this new problem between Christians as a monarch demanding that unruly subjects come to order, the emperor took the first step towards compromise by exhorting the parties from the viewpoint of his claim to be an emperor who also happened to be one of their number—a Christian. As their ‘fellow-servant’ (συνθεράπων) of the supreme God, he described the principles of compromise that he urged upon them: Accordingly, let each of you extend pardon equally, and accept what your fellow servant in justice urges upon you. What is this? That it was neither right to ask about such things in the first place, nor to answer when asked.22

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This does not mean that he relinquished any authority. The emperor still expected submission to his will, although he preferred compromise to coercion.23 Constantine characterised such compromise to both sides in terms of their mutual pardon, shared acceptance of just criticism, and agreement to avoid in the future the sorts of theological speculation and debate that focused too closely on the minutiae of God’s very being. Constantine proceeded to make recommendations for how he determined ecclesiastical unity ought to be restored in the East.24 He believed that his expectation of reconciliation was entirely reasonable on the grounds of the following aesthetic argument (where this type of speech appears for the first time in his surviving correspondence): You have one and the same mind [lit., ‘reasoning power’], so that you should be able to come together in agreement of communion. That so many of the people of God, who ought to be under the direction of your minds (φρεσίν), are engaging in eager rivalry because you disagree with each other about small and exceedingly insignificant points, is believed to be neither proper nor in any way clearly fitting.25 This is a normative aesthetic argument: the standard to which Constantine appealed here was Christian unity on the basis of them having a common ‘mind’. Thus, that which ‘should be’ (unity) could be expected to follow from what ‘is’ (sharing a common mind). What the emperor implied is that a logical movement from the way things are to how they ought to be constituted his standard of what, in this case, he deemed normatively proper or fitting. Such a harmonious connection of concrete present and ideal reality is expressed here as not, in fact, being the case, and thus the dissonance between them is regarded by Constantine as neither proper nor fitting. However, the same letter shows that Constantine appeared to contradict himself regarding this so-called ‘common mind’ as a foundation for compromise between disputing Christians. If Alexander and Arius accepted Constantine’s view of their argument’s source as unworthy of controversy and agreed to keep silent about any details of their theological differences, then the emperor would not compel their agreement: I do not say these things as if I were forcing you to seek to agree in every part of this exceedingly simple-minded matter, of whatever sort it is. For it is possible to preserve the fellowship among you all, although on a very small part a disagreement may come into being, since we all neither wish for identical things, nor does one single nature and mind (γνώμη, lit. ‘means of knowing, thought, or judgment’) administer that which is in us.26 Here, Constantine actually urged ecclesiastical unity on a basis opposite to that which he referred to as their ‘common mind’ only a few lines above: he argued here for a kind of unity among Christians that acknowledged and made sufficient

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allowance for some measure of diversity in theological opinions. The emperor’s paradoxical statements in this letter regarding Christian agreement (based on whether or not they possess a ‘common mind’) can be resolved by examining the structure of the aesthetic argument in this statement. Like Constantine’s earlier utterance pointing to the presence of a ‘common mind’, his normative aesthetic argument here (which explicitly assumes the absence of such a rationale for renewing ecclesiastical communion) appealed to a standard of suitability determined by the emperor that was based on linking ‘what is’ and ‘what ought to be’. Present conditions, or ‘what is’, were reflected in Constantine’s view that Christians ‘neither wish[ed] for identical things … nor [did] one single nature and mind administer [in them]’. The existence of a ‘disagreement … over a very small part’ likewise signified ‘what is’ as determined by Constantine elsewhere throughout his letter. The ideal reality, or that which ‘ought to be’, then, was the preservation of unity in general fellowship. Significantly, it is at this juncture—in the emperor’s assertion that an acknowledged disconnect between what ‘is’ and ‘ought to be’ did not necessarily pose any problem hindering restored Christian unity—that he also applied language of possibility. While claiming that Christians disagreed over paltry details, Constantine declared that ecclesiastical unity was nevertheless ‘possible’ (δύναται). This affirmation by the emperor that unity remained viable (despite a disagreement he seemed to scorn as ‘small and exceedingly trivial’) indicates the sort of unity that he urged on the recipients of his letter: a general harmony that accepted some diversity of opinion so long as communion could be maintained, or theological concord. It is worth re-emphasising that Constantine provided the specific conditions he envisioned regarding the potential for progress from circumstances of inter-Christian division over beliefs to a state of relative peace. Each ought to acknowledge the fair critiques of their opponents, respond to such admissions with mutual forgiveness, and move forward in a communion unbroken by further detailed and divisive theological conjecture. This letter to Alexander and Arius, when considered as a whole, contains the imperative that the parties of supporters associated with these men must reconcile for the sake of restored ecclesiastical unity in the East. As emperor, Constantine asserted the power to determine the standard and type of such unity and assigned to Alexander and Arius the obligation to willingly conform to this pattern. The command itself was essentially the same as in 313 when Constantine had told those episcopal judges presiding at Rome over the case against Caecilian that schism and division must cease. However, the authoritative force in the tone of such a decree was softened by the emperor’s use of aesthetic argument to indicate the reasonableness of compliance and articulation of his orders in terms of possibility. Consider the way that Constantine ended this letter with a series of vivid ‘requests’. He asked them to restore his ability to sleep peacefully and enjoy days undisturbed by reports of dissension.27 He also asked them to open his road to the East, which he claimed their conflict had closed to him.28 He concluded, ‘Quickly allow me to look with pleasure both on you and all the other people, and to render to the Supreme, using auspicious words, my debt of thanks for the

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common concord and liberty of all.’29An emperor’s arrival (adventus) could be an honour in reward for some special service rendered by the citizenry.30 It could also be threatening to any rebellious subjects as well as foreign enemies near the frontiers since an emperor’s judgement was final and he was always accompanied by a military escort.31 Whether intended as a promise or threat, communicating an emperor’s plan to visit a particular city or region can be understood as another form of persuasive speech—regardless of whether or not such a journey ever took place or was completed. In the case of Constantine’s stated intention in this letter to visit Alexandria, his attested movements show him at Constantinople in November 324, travelling as far east as Antioch by the following month, and that he returned west to Nicomedia by February 325—leaving room for taking the emperor at his word when he claimed he had intended to reach Alexandria.32 But when he learned that this city was at the centre of widespread conflict among eastern Christians, he refused to honour (or threaten) it with his presence and turned around—suggesting that the controversy had simply made it impossible for him to continue. By resorting to such methods of persuasion at the very start of his involvement with ecclesiastical divisions in the East, Constantine communicated that his approach would be characterised by compromise rather than simply expecting obedience to his will. The emperor, therefore, took the following initial actions in order to advance a resolution aimed at restoring unity through accommodation. He presented himself as a mediating agent between the disputing parties, urged them to accept their shared responsibility for the situation and reach a mutual settlement, and informed them that he would accept a broad arrangement in which their theological concord would allow for some diversity of belief without interfering with general fellowship. He clarified the intended persuasive purpose of these actions in this letter using normative aesthetic arguments to reinforce the reasonableness of complying with his commands, which were moderated in their imperative force by him adopting a rhetoric of possibility.

Aesthetic argument and possibility in the letter to Catholic Christians in Alexandria A similar pattern in Constantine’s persuasive, compromise-oriented speech can be seen by examining his letter to the Catholic church of Alexandria, which should be dated after June 325 since its content indicates it is written after the Council of Nicaea (which met from 20 May to July 325).33 The emperor began this letter with a number of hyperbolic claims. He declared that the Council had resolved all forms of division while refuting heresy in general.34 He also affirmed that ‘all points which seemed ambiguous or could possibly lead to dissension [had] been discussed and accurately examined’.35 Finally, he asserted that ‘more than three hundred bishops’ unanimously confirmed the same faith as agreeing with divine law.36 Of course, the Council had not decided all issues over which Christians disagreed or were estranged from one another: the so-called ‘Arian Controversy’, for which Nicaea is best remembered in addressing, continued throughout much of

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the fourth century with no permanently dominant solution until after the Council of Constantinople in 381.37 Nor, as will be seen below, did the decision concerning Easter hold firm for long. We do not know exactly how many bishops participated in the Council of Nicaea, but reasonable estimates assume somewhere between 250 and 300, most of them representing Christian communities in the East. The highest figure given is the traditional 318, which happened to coincide with the number of trained fighters recruited by the biblical Abraham to rescue his nephew Lot.38 Thus, Constantine was not entirely out of line claiming ‘more than three hundred’ but nevertheless exaggerated the exact number of participants in the Council’s deliberations as well as its measure of success in settling various points of disagreement. Contrary to having earlier held both Alexander and Arius to blame for the initial discord, the emperor claimed here that Arius alone was responsible for heresy’s spread.39 He followed his account of the Council’s accomplishments (which we may understand structurally as defining his imparted view of present conditions, or ‘what is’) by urging Alexandrian Christians to live up to those achievements (or what ‘ought to be’, according to the emperor).40 Constantine entreated them to receive the divine judgement given through the bishops’ supposedly unanimous decision.41 He urged his audience to reconcile and be united ‘as one common body with those who are legitimate members with us’.42 In other words, Constantine believed (or at least wanted the letter’s recipients to believe) that the theological questions at issue had been definitively answered: anyone who held views that deviated from Nicaea’s decision regarding the divine nature of the Father and the Son ought to unite themselves with those who fully accepted the Council’s determination. These normative instructions were then reinforced with an aesthetic argument: This [unification around Christians’ universal acceptance of Nicaea] is fitting for your discernment, faith, and piety, that you return to divine favour, since it has been proven that this error [the views associated with Arius] is from one who is an enemy of the truth.43 Since, according to Constantine, the Council had completed its work to resolve the theological crisis by determining that the Father and the Son shared equally the same divine being to the same full extent (ὁμοούσιος, or ‘consubstantial’), then it made reasonable and aesthetic sense that Christians should worship God accordingly with no other views or opinions about Him to keep them divided. This pattern that lined up ‘what is’ with what ‘ought to be’, resulting in an implicit aesthetic argument, was repeated at the end of this letter. The emperor asserted here that the common opinion of 300 bishops could not be anything other than the divinely inspired truth of God.44 This was the same equation of divine and episcopal authority that Constantine had made explicit in his earlier affirmation of the decision reached against the Donatists by the Council of Arles.45 Following this description of ‘what is’, Constantine urged what ‘ought to be’: a speedy ‘return to the truest path’ (τὴν ἀληθεστάτην ὁδὸν ἐπάνιτε) by restoring

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ecclesiastical unity.46 In other words, divided Christians ought to submit to the will of God as evident in the agreement of so many bishops and unite in support of Nicaea’s resolution. Constantine did not resort explicitly here to aesthetic language by attaching a phrase such as ‘it is fitting’ to his directive. However, the same progression from ‘what is’ (his portrait of the Council’s ostensible success) to what ‘ought to be’ (that Christians in Alexandria ought to restore unity among themselves) repeated the structural pattern of an aesthetic argument. Interestingly, it could be imitative and normative in type. It is imitative in that the Alexandrians were to follow the example of the Council’s unity in their reconciliation. It could be normative in that, for Constantine, what is pleasing to God ought also to be pleasing to worshippers of God. Viewed in the context of this entire letter, it is likely that the emperor intended his recipients to understand it both ways. The Christians in Alexandria were to imitate the broad episcopal agreement at Nicaea by reconciling with one another. To do so was pleasing to God, which also ought to delight those who worshipped Him. A final point to discuss in this letter concerns the grammar of possibility that appears in close relation to the two aesthetic arguments just described. Having thus prompted these Christians to accept Nicaea and resolve any lingering differences on the basis of the decision rendered at the Council that clearly (to Constantine) revealed the divine ruling, the emperor closed this letter—as he had his initial communication to Alexander and Arius—by making his long-delayed visit to Alexandria dependent upon the Christians’ compliance with these very conditions: so that when I arrive, as soon as possible, I might acknowledge with all of you my gratitude to the God who sees all things for having displayed the pure faith, and for restoring the love which was prayed for.47 As noted, Constantine used such contingent language to alleviate the authoritative force of his orders when writing to Alexander and Arius. Both of these documents expressed the emperor’s commands in the form of a ‘request’ that his recipients, by restoring unity among themselves, would make it possible for him to accomplish some sort of act—in each of these two cases, an imperial visit to Alexandria. The effect of such language in both letters was to transfer the responsibility for granting him the capacity to accomplish his own acts onto those whom he addressed.

Aesthetic argument and possibility in the letter to the churches on celebrating Easter48 Prior to Nicaea, Christians in various parts of the empire had developed distinct traditions concerning the time each chose to commemorate the events central to their common faith—the death and resurrection of Jesus. According to Eusebius of Caesarea, the churches in Asia Minor kept their ancient practice of holding the feast on the fourteenth of the Jewish month of Nisan (thus, they were called

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‘Quartodecimans’) without regard to whatever day of the week it might be. Polycrates of Ephesus, writing around the end of the second century to Victor of Rome, claimed the authority of apostles and martyrs to support this practice. However, Victor responded by excommunicating the churches in Asia although this went too far for others in the West, such as Irenaeus of Lyons who supported the western practice of celebrating Easter only on the Sunday after 14 Nisan but wished to maintain unity with those who held strictly to the Jewish lunar calendar in timing their paschal festivals.49 The variety of practices and computations for timing these celebrations continued throughout the third century. Dionysius of Alexandria, in the mid-third century proposed an eight-year cycle in order to maintain the practice of holding Easter solemnities after the vernal equinox.50 During the last quarter of the third century, Anatolius (a native Alexandrian who became the bishop of Caesarea and later of Laodicea) produced a complex method of calculating the proper date according to the Sun’s position within the zodiac.51 With so much diversity in custom and accompanying confusion, the Council of Nicaea took up the task of seeking uniformity. According to a copy of a letter produced by the Council which was addressed to churches throughout Egypt, those who previously celebrated according to the Jewish pattern were now to conform with Roman practice and time their festivities so that Easter was always on a Sunday.52 Constantine accompanied the Council’s letter with one of his own, which is addressed simply ‘to the churches’ (ταῖς ἐκκλησίαις) as preserved in Book 3 of Eusebius’ Life of Constantine.53 Like, the emperor’s communication to the Christians of Alexandria, this document should also be dated after June 325 for the same reason.54 Unlike the Council’s letter, which discussed its decision concerning Arius’ views and its compromise regarding Meletian bishops as well as the ruling on Easter, Constantine focused his attention here exclusively on Easter. This is perhaps because, as Barnes speculates, the emperor was personally responsible for placing the determination of a single date on the Council’s agenda.55 If true, determining part of a church council’s agenda could be viewed as a remarkable further imperial intervention into ecclesiastical affairs. However, this is not any more of an interposition of his power than either summoning a council in the first place or ordering a change in its location—both earlier actions that were within the jurisdiction of an authority that was not purely ‘secular’. Furthermore, helping decide which matters were to be discussed was not the same as imposing a specific resolution. This letter, in which Constantine offered his account of what the Council had decided concerning the timing of Easter’s celebration by Christians universally, contains eight examples of aesthetic language (the most numerous examples of such in any of this emperor’s surviving correspondence) and two examples of phrasing related to the theme of possibility.56 The prevalence of aesthetic argument and possibility language, relative to the frequency of their appearance in other examples of Constantine’s letters, demonstrates how concerned he was to present compliance with the Council’s verdict (and, by association, his authority in ratifying and enforcing that ecclesiastical decision) in terms of assenting to persuasion rather than unconditionally obeying explicit commands. The compromise

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that Constantine presented implicitly in this letter was not with himself or the Council, but among all Christians with one another so that they might everywhere henceforth celebrate Easter according to the same pattern determined by the assembled bishops. Compelling Christians into a uniform agreement on an issue where there was such long-standing diversity of practice does not seem like much of a ‘compromise’: indeed it was not, since the general western practice of timing the paschal feast prevailed (temporarily) over widely observed eastern custom at Nicaea. But by articulating in such terms his expectations that Christians throughout the empire conform to the Council’s verdict on this matter, Constantine hoped to more readily gain their acquiescence. He set up his argument to this effect with a description of his ecclesiastical aims at this time: Having grasped by experience of the public happiness how great the grace of the divine power is inclined [towards us], I have at any rate judged it fitting that before all else my objective (τοῦτόν γε πρὸ γε πάντων ἔκρινα εἶναί μοι προςήκειν σκοπόν) is that among the most blessed multitudes of the Catholic church one faith, a pure love, and a piety that is of one mind about Almighty God should be observed.57 Two distinct but connected declarations were made here. First, Constantine, in typical imperial fashion, linked public prosperity with divine favour. He believed that his arrival at supreme power demonstrated divine benevolence towards all, not merely himself: what God had determined was good for Constantine was also right for the empire. Such ‘public happiness’ as the evidence and result of divine favour to which the emperor pointed here signified ‘what is’, or what he presented as present conditions. Second, the emperor announced that his aim was ecclesiastical unity, which thus described what he claimed ‘ought to be’. Both of these assertions—‘what is’ and ‘ought to be’—are joined according to the structural pattern of a normative aesthetic argument by means of language expressing the reasonableness of his desire for ecclesiastical unity. The standard of what constituted the suitability of Constantine’s wishes and compliance with them was, of course, the emperor’s judgement although he claimed his assessment was rooted in the experience of divine blessing. Because such heavenly benefits were manifest in peace and security under Constantine’s victorious rule, he declared that it was his fitting responsibility to ensure the well-being of God’s worshippers by exerting imperial power to the end of making them one. In this instance, the normative aesthetic argument was not designed to introduce a command but rather to justify the emperor’s presence and participation at the Council of Nicaea.58 He said nothing as yet about either his role in convening the bishops, or his participation in their proceedings. But announcing that he had, in fact, been present at the Council was important because it communicated the emperor’s agency in all that took place there.59 Imitative aesthetic arguments occur most often in this letter to the churches on Easter. Constantine treated Jews and Christians as members of separate religions,

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associating only the latter of the two with his publicly preferred divine worship.60 The emperor’s assumptions in this letter concerning Christian supersessionism and charges of Jewish blood-guilt reflected prevalent Gentile Christian views in the fourth century.61 These suppositions formed the basis for Constantine’s stated support of the Council’s decision to set a single, universally applicable method for calculating Easter that did not coincide with Passover.62 According to the emperor, Christians were to avoid imitating Jewish practice in any respect. He initially suggested that unanimity was preferable on the grounds of aesthetically linking unity and universality: ‘For what is better (lit., “more beautiful”) and more reverent for us than that this festival from which it is possible that we have gained hope of immortality, ought to be observed invariably along one ordained and visible principle?’63 Where a certain spectrum of theological opinion was permissible to Constantine, he remained firm in expecting that all Christians everywhere conform to the same rites and practices. These were to be distinctly Christian and have as little owed to Jewish customs as possible. This repudiation of any semblance of Christian and Jewish observances was rooted in Constantine’s sense of the latter’s ‘blood-guilt’ in the death of Jesus: the emperor expressed revulsion at the idea of Christians imitating the ways of those who were held to have participated in that execution: Indeed it was decreed unworthy to have fully observed that most holy festival following the custom of the Jews who have chapped their hands with unlawful crimes, such stained ones are suitably soul-blind. For it is possible, now that that nation has been rejected by a truer arrangement that we have observed to the uttermost from the first day of the Passion until now, to extend the completion of this observation to future ages. Therefore, there is to be nothing in common with the most hateful mob of the Jews.64 The command at the end does not appear to be even slightly muted in force, despite the proximity of both aesthetic argument and possibility language. In fact, Constantine is brusque to the point of exaggeration so that it is said Christians should not only avoid celebrating Easter in connection with Passover but also shun anything having an affinity with Jewish practice. Constantine’s assumptions about Jews—that they bear the guilt in the death of Jesus and are, therefore, ‘stained’ and ‘soul-blind’—function as negatively expressed criteria for his estimation of ‘what is’ while the same injunction can be described positively by the supposed presence of what he called a ‘truer arrangement’ (that is, the celebration of Easter by Christians according to the pattern sanctioned by Nicaea). What ‘ought to be’, then, was that this system would be uniformly observed by all Christians. According to the emperor, it was ill-fitting for Christians to commemorate Christ’s suffering according to the custom of those deemed responsible for it. Constantine essentially re-stated this position in three further imitative aesthetic arguments; first in the statement that followed the command to have nothing in common with Jews, and the other two at the letter’s conclusion.65 It was stated

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or implied in each case, using aesthetic reasoning grounded on the same assumptions about the Jews, that it was unacceptable to imitate Jewish custom by observing Easter according to the Passover celebration. Stated positively, the command was that the bishops receiving this letter ought to mark the paschal festival in their own churches throughout the empire according to the Council’s decision rather than continuing to imitate the Jewish pattern regarding Passover.66 While the structure of the three statements differs in where the key elements of the argument are placed, the link through aesthetic language of ‘that which is’ with what ‘ought to be’ can still be seen as softening the imperative by means of persuasive speech. The letter concludes with a further repetition of the order to implement the Council’s decision with the promised reward of an imperial visit. Again, the mandate and pledge were expressed using the grammar of possibility: You should by this time receive the prescribed computation and appoint the close observance of the most holy day in order that when I come to you, as I have long desired to view the arrangement of your affairs, I might possibly celebrate the holy festival with you on one and the same day as I have been able to see the devilish savagery that has been destroyed by the divine power and through our action, while our faith and peace and concord flourish everywhere.67 With these words, Constantine continued to call for Christian compliance with the Council’s decrees by transferring responsibility to the Christians themselves in order to grant a successful conclusion to actions he had initiated. The general address ‘to the churches’ in this letter might indicate that the emperor intended to visit every episcopal see in the empire. But such a tour seems rather unlikely unless the emperor planned to limit his travels to major centres like Antioch, Rome, Alexandria, or Jerusalem. In any event, no such journey ever occurred during Constantine’s reign although he visited Rome to celebrate his vicennalia in late summer 326 and his mother, Helena, reached Jerusalem on her own later the same year or perhaps early in 327.68 Even so, the suggestion of an imperial visit would be a powerful incentive to comply with his wishes and Constantine continued using it now as we have seen he had in the past during the Donatist schism and his opening engagement with Alexander and Arius.

Aesthetic argument and possibility in the letter to the church of Nicomedia The emperor learned quickly, however, that the ‘great council’ did not bring unity or resolve every question. Eusebius of Nicomedia, who had been among Arius’ most powerful episcopal supporters, accepted Nicaea’s theological definition at first. However, he soon fell afoul of Constantine by communicating with other allies of Arius.69 The emperor banished Eusebius and wrote this letter urging the Christians in Nicomedia to replace him as their bishop. Barnes argued that it must have been other ‘Alexandrian malcontents’ such as Meletians or supporters of

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Colluthus, who had been deposed as bishop of Antioch just before the Council of Nicaea, with whom Eusebius communicated.70 However, it is difficult to believe that Constantine would have perceived, much less reacted to, a so-called ‘challenge to the fragile unity of Nicaea’ of any lesser significance than contact with Arius. According to Constantine, Eusebius was tainted with heresy because of that on-going communication.71 Eusebius was also associated with apostasy and treason in Constantine’s mind because of the exiled bishop’s former connection to Licinius—with whom (the emperor also alleged) Eusebius cooperated with the defeated ‘tyrant’ in espionage and persecution, even the killing of bishops.72 Thus, the emperor also suggested that the Christians who had been under Eusebius’ leadership in Nicomedia were likewise dangerously associated with their bishop’s supposed wrongdoing.73 Only one minor instance of aesthetic language occurs in Constantine’s letter to the church of Nicomedia, which is dated November or December 325.74 Following his explanation of Nicaea’s theological decision, Constantine declared himself the ‘fellow-servant’ (συνθεράποντα) of Christians in Nicomedia and proclaimed his role in the Council’s purported success.75 Interestingly, the emperor here defined such success in terms of orthodoxy rather than achieving ecclesiastical unity.76 This indicated that Constantine conceded that unity was not as fully achieved as he earlier claimed. However, more precise theology contributed towards greater unity by providing a universal standard of what constituted the true Christian faith. He added: I rejoice over these good things because of the exceedingly great renewal for the empire. In fact, it was truly worthy (ἦν ἄξιον ἀληθῶς) of marvel that so many nations were brought into concord, which a short time before had been said not to recognise God.77 The structural pattern of an aesthetic argument—linking ‘what is’ with ‘what ought to be’—does not readily appear in this statement or its immediate context (although the aesthetic language itself is explicit). However, a careful reading reveals that the pattern is actually present as well as some development in how it is constructed in this letter. The aesthetic language in this brief passage is arranged so that it now links a series of positive and negative statements concerning ‘what is’, while ‘what ought to be’ immediately follows. The arrangement shows further development in the direct link between positive and negative expressions of ‘what is’. Nevertheless, there remains the same discernible structure according to which ‘what is’ is joined with ‘what ought to be’ by the presence of aesthetic language. The emperor’s claims describing ‘what is’ included his self-declared status as the ‘fellow-servant’ of Christians in Nicomedia; his having assumed some responsibility for addressing ecclesiastical matters; and his role in helping them overcome their enemies (the persecuting emperors, including Licinius, and Arius’ heresy). As a result, he wrote, the empire was experiencing great renewal.78 Specifically, he asserted that nations had been united in faith though they had not formerly known God at all.79 Directly following this hyperbolic statement is

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a series of negatively articulated claims regarding ‘what is’. Included here is the suggestion that these same ‘nations’ were now concerned with a dispute of which they had formerly not even heard; that the Nicomedian Christians themselves had played a part in its spread; that its continuance constituted a lamentable state of affairs; and that those who rejected Nicaea’s decision on the consubstantiality of the Father and Son were a ‘band of robbers’ (λῃστηρίου).80 The argument—that peoples who formerly did not know God were now unified in His worship—concludes with a series of rhetorical questions. Was God not everywhere present, and could those who worshipped Him not perceive that universal presence? Christians would surely respond in the affirmative to both inquiries. Did the entire cosmic order not hold together by His divine power? Again, Christians would agree readily. Then, Constantine delivered a verbal blow that would bring them to shame: was the cosmos not thus deprived of such order insofar as they remained separated from one another?81 Thus, positive statements (rendered as questions) concerning ‘what ought to be’ are combined with an assertion of what ‘ought not to be’. God, Christians could affirm with the emperor, did indeed fill the universe with His presence and this ought to be perceived by those who worshipped Him. The cosmos was assuredly joined in an orderly arrangement by the power of God acting upon and within it. Why, then, were His worshippers divided against one another in the face of realities they acknowledged that ought necessarily to betoken their unified worship of this one, universal supreme God whose power gave form and structure to all existence? According to Constantine, such a discrepancy involving God’s divided worshippers directly contradicted and threatened to envelop the divine order in chaos. This present condition ought not to be, and the situation of Christians within the empire stands out in contrast with that of ‘barbaric’ nations who worshipped God in unity (although they, too, were affected by the divisive example of Constantine’s Christian subjects). Since the emperor addressed these arguments to the Christians of Nicomedia, he pointed to their bishop Eusebius (rather than Arius) as having led them astray. According to Constantine, Eusebius had supported Arius’ teachings that were denounced at Nicaea and likewise taught these views to those under his authority. Aside from encouraging heresy, the emperor continued, Eusebius had enabled the defeated tyrant Licinius to attack those who ought to have been protected by their bishop. Constantine even claimed to possess unmistakable evidence that Eusebius had acted treasonously against him on Licinius’ behalf.82 It seems likely enough that Eusebius, as bishop of the Christians in Licinius’ capital city, would have supported his emperor in some way against Constantine as an invading enemy. Yet no one, even Constantine, could have known for certain in whose favour the subsequent war would conclude. Eusebius’ survival and later standing in imperial favour under Constantine demonstrates that the bishop satisfied the emperor as to where his loyalties ultimately lay. Therefore, while Eusebius might have acted subversively against Constantine prior to Licinius’ defeat, this could only be construed as treason after the fortunes of both emperors were decided in battle. In addition to the aesthetic argument, Constantine twice used implicit possibility language in this letter. The main imperative directed the Nicomedian Christians

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to choose an episcopal successor to the exiled Eusebius and is articulated twice in this document.83 The first instance immediately follows the emperor’s nonetoo-subtle suggestion that they had somehow participated in Eusebius’ alleged offences.84 ‘But the remedy [for this negative association] is not slow if, at any rate, you receive a bishop who is both trustworthy and inviolate and shift your gaze back to God. This very thing is in your power’.85 In other words, Constantine suggested to the Nicomedian Christians that their standing before him might improve if they chose another bishop—thus displaying their loyalty to him and the Council of Nicaea while at the same time repudiating Eusebius’ unfortunate political and theological choices. The emperor could have directly ordered them to select a bishop more satisfactory to himself but expressed this command in terms that placed responsibility entirely on them for a positive change in their condition. The same command is similarly expressed a second time in the letter’s conclusion: Now it is yours to look to God with that faith which is well known to have always existed, and rightly should exist, and recommend a course of action in which we may rejoice to see that you have holy, orthodox, and benevolent bishops; and if anyone in a reckless act dares give praise to these persons or brings immediate remembrance without consideration, he will be restrained from his over-boldness by the activity of the servant of God, that is to say, by me.86 Here the responsibility for choosing another bishop (and Constantine’s ability to ‘rejoice’ as a result) is again placed on his subject audience. Further, the Christians of Nicomedia are warned not to follow Eusebius’ example in having any positive association with condemned heretics. Nicaea’s theology (to which Eusebius later claimed he had assented) and its anathemas (which he did not accept) were to be treated as authoritative for Christians: in Nicomedia, they were to support a bishop who would promote such authority. Already, however, questions were raised concerning the precise interpretation of Nicene theology that would prevail in theological debates for decades to come. Constantine was never clear about his particular understanding of Nicaea’s theological verdict. The awkward and imprecise formulation with which he began this letter reaches after but does not fully express the one-ness of the Father and Son or their distinction as co-equal persons. It is unfair to expect precision of the emperor that even Christians themselves could not achieve at this time, as shown by the numerous creeds prepared over subsequent decades that sought to clarify or repudiate the original Nicene definition. At any rate, Constantine’s judicial decisions over the next several years that affected certain individuals on various sides of the theological arguments about Nicaea’s meaning (which will be discussed in Chapter 6) show that he supported the Council’s authority though not clearly a single precise interpretation.

Aesthetic argument in the letter to Theodotus of Laodicea At about the time that Constantine wrote to the Nicomedian Christians (late 325), he also sent a brief communication to Theodotus, bishop of Laodicea from around

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the turn of the fourth century until approximately 335. Theodotus had been a known supporter of Arius and was provisionally excommunicated (along with Eusebius of Caesarea) at the Council of Antioch in early 325. Both Theodotus and Eusebius subscribed to the Nicene Creed and were allowed to keep their episcopal seats. The emperor had appreciated Eusebius of Caesarea’s statement of faith so much that, according to the bishop himself, it was promoted as a model creed with the addition of ὁμοούσιον.87 However, Constantine must have remained somewhat suspicious of Theodotus’ commitment to Nicene orthodoxy. He wrote this letter to Theodotus to explain the exiles of the bishop’s earlier associates, Eusebius of Nicomedia and Theognis of Nicaea, while warning him not to be influenced by these men.88 The letter to Theodotus contains two aesthetic arguments. The first is normative and is found at the beginning. The second is imitative and concludes the emperor’s words to the bishop of Laodicea. While the letter lacks any possibility language, it further illustrates the function of aesthetic language in clothing Constantine’s commands in the garb of persuasive discourse and compromise. The letter begins with the emperor’s description of ‘what is’: Eusebius and Theognis were banished as the result of God’s wrath against those who ‘did violence to the most holy worship and … dishonoured the name of our Saviour God even after they had been granted pardon’.89 Constantine referred in this way to Eusebius’ and Theognis’ initial support of the Nicene Creed and subsequent contact with Arius against the terms of Nicaea’s anathemas. This was followed immediately by a statement of what ‘ought to be’: the two exiled bishops ‘ought to have amended the former error, especially after like-minded concord was reached at the synod. But instead, they were caught standing fast in their absurdities’.90 Again, this pertains to Eusebius and Theognis having communicated with Arius, which Constantine equated with supporting heresy. The emperor thus declared that divine providence had cast them out—by means of both ecclesiastical deposition and imperial exile—as a ‘fitting’ (ἀξίαν) punishment with the prospect of worse retribution in eternity.91 The normative aesthetic argument here explained the emperor’s actions in punishing Eusebius and Theognis with exile and at the same time laid a foundation for his carefully phrased warning that Theodotus should avoid affiliating with them: I thought there was the need to disclose this very thing [that being connected to condemned heretics deserves punishment] to aid Your Sagacity, so that if any evil counsel of such as these [Eusebius and Theognis] were to influence your resolution—as for myself, I do not suspect this—you should purify your mind by setting these thoughts aside as is fitting and may be willing to offer your spotless understanding, purified dedication, and undefiled faith to the Saviour God. In fact, this very thing would be the fitting action for anyone who desires to be thought worthy of the inviolate rewards of eternal life.92 Here, metaphors of pollution and cleansing help reveal the structure of an imitative aesthetic argument. Constantine portrayed Eusebius and Theognis to Theodotus as continually besmirching the name of God with their encouragement of heresy.

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Then, using imagery evoking cleanliness, the emperor implied that Theodotus’ own orthodoxy could be viewed as questionable since he had also shown himself to have earlier supported Arius. The emperor warned the bishop of Laodicea to avoid the fate of these convicted men by maintaining his own views in accordance with the faith determined at Nicaea. Eusebius of Caesarea, Theognis, and Eusebius of Nicomedia had signed the creed. However, a mere signature did not necessarily suggest a real change in beliefs or even submission to the majority decision. Constantine appears to have believed Theodotus needed further prompting, though this was delivered in a manner that took care to avoid levelling a direct accusation.

Language of possibility in the letter summoning Arius Only a few brief words are necessary here concerning the short letter summoning Arius to the imperial court, dated 27 November 327.93 This letter claims to be the second summons of Arius by Constantine to appear for a hearing before the imperial court. We have no other evidence of a first order to come before the emperor: perhaps Arius feared returning to Nicomedia more than disobeying the initial summons by failing to appear, or he may simply not have received it. At any rate, Socrates (writing in the fifth century) gave the account that Constantine had been persuaded by his half-sister, Constantia, to grant Arius a chance to rehabilitate himself. According to this writer, a presbyter who had served her in the palace of her late-husband Licinius continued doing so in Constantine’s court, although he was believed sympathetic to Arius. Eusebius of Nicomedia, who was apparently not yet exiled but may have already been in contact with Arius, was said to have encouraged this palace clergyman’s use of his proximity to the imperial family on Arius’ behalf. Then, Eusebius was banished and Constantia fell gravely ill, commending this presbyter to Constantine’s protection. After her death, the emperor quickly came to rely on and trust him, and therefore he took the opportunity to speak with confidence to his imperial master in Arius’ favour.94 Constantine appears to have (perhaps reluctantly) agreed to give Arius a hearing and summoned him by letter, though Socrates re-produced a copy of the imperial document that the emperor claimed to have written previously.95 It is this ‘second summons’ of Arius by Constantine, in which we find demonstrated the emperor’s further use of obstinacy rhetoric along with two examples of possibility language in connection with an imperative given with softened force. Since the letter is rather brief, it is worth quoting it in full: Constantine, Victor and Supreme Augustus, to Arius. It was indeed long ago made known to you in your obstinacy that you might wish to come to our court, so that you might be able to have the benefit of seeing us. We are wondering very much that you did not do this immediately. Therefore, now board a public carriage, and come with haste to our court. In this way, when you have been in our company and had favour from

174 The doctrine of resistance and compromise us, you may be able to return to your own country. May God guard you carefully, beloved. Given the twenty-seventh of November.96 The emperor’s use of ‘obstinacy’ (στερρότητι) indicates that Arius’ apparent failure to respond to the original summons was taken as resistance against imperial authority.97 Constantine ordered Arius a second time to appear in his presence ‘so that [he] might be able to enjoy the privilege of seeing [the emperor]’.98 The command to travel with haste to the imperial court at Nicomedia by means of the cursus publicus (ὀχήματος δημοσίου) is expressed directly.99 Its force is softened in the next sentence which is expressed in terms of possibility and assures Arius of imperial favour: ‘whenever you have been in our company and had favour from us, you may be able to return to your own country’.100 The potential optative mood in both of these examples softens the expression but not the meaning or purpose of the emperor’s command that Arius ought to comply. It also reveals the unstated (but surely understood) conditional nature of Arius’ standing before the emperor: Arius might be able to enjoy the emperor’s presence as an honour and may be able to return home, but he would first have to satisfy Constantine in the matter of Nicaea’s authority. The use of a public vehicle was not an offer of friendly assistance, nor was Arius’ ‘obstinacy’ the reason that Constantine would not earlier admit him to his presence, as Timothy Barnes argued.101 The emperor was not pleased with having to give the same command to Arius twice, and the language here is laced with irony. Arius’ ‘obstinacy’ in this letter referred to his failure to heed the emperor’s original invitation, while the use of the public vehicle was intended to expedite his journey. The interview before Constantine not only turned out well for Arius, who was recalled from his exile but also for Eusebius of Nicomedia and Theognis of Nicaea (both of whom petitioned successfully for their release upon learning of Arius’ restoration). Arius, along with his fellow exile Euzoius, provided a written statement of faith that resonated closely enough with Nicaea’s creed to satisfy the emperor.102 Constantine was probably also mollified by additional assurances at the end of this declaration to the effect that Arius and Euzoius would ‘abstain from questions and overly verbose inquiries’ (περιῃρημένων τῶν ζητημάτων καὶ τῶν ἐκ τῶν ζητημάτων περρισσολογιῶν) and pray with the whole church on behalf of the emperor and his family.103 Constantine recommended Arius to a provincial synod for restoration, and the latter apparently gained re-admission into communion by these bishops: reports to that effect reached Eusebius of Nicomedia in exile who, along Theognis of Nicaea, petitioned this synod to be restored into fellowship on the grounds that Arius himself had been accepted.104

Aesthetic argument and possibility in the letters on Eusebius of Caesarea and Antioch Shortly after the Council of Nicaea’s end, the bishops Eusebius of Caesarea and Eustathius of Antioch were identified as leaders in a dispute over the term

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ὁμοούσιον in the Nicene Creed.105 Their quarrel resulted in the Council of Antioch, which was held late in the year 327 and deprived Eustathius of his episcopal seat.106 Another council held soon thereafter elected Eusebius of Caesarea as the new bishop of Antioch following the deaths of two short-lived successors to Eustathius. The city erupted in popular rioting, and local magistrates dispatched soldiers to forcefully restore order.107 Eusebius declined his election to Antioch and remained the bishop of Caesarea.108 A decade later, Eusebius included three letters of Constantine concerning this affair in his Life of the recently deceased emperor.109 The first document, according to Eusebius’ arrangement, was directed to the Christian laity of Antioch.110 The second letter was addressed to Eusebius himself.111 A third communication was intended for the bishops assembled at Antioch, including Theodotus of Laodicea (who may have presided at this additional synod).112 According to Averil Cameron and Stuart Hall, ‘[these three] letters make it clear that the emperor had offered Eusebius the see, and that he had refused it’.113 However, there is nothing of the kind suggested in these documents. On the contrary, Constantine affirmed Eusebius’ refusal while mildly censuring the laity for proclaiming him as bishop against canonical procedure.114 Additionally, Eusebius had already declined his election in agreement with Nicaea’s 15th canon (prohibiting bishops and clergy from transferring freely from city to city) before the emperor proposed his own alternative candidates: Euphronius and George.115 Constantine affirmed here and in his letter to Eusebius of Caesarea that the bishop’s seat at Antioch was rightly declined by the latter in accordance with ecclesiastical decisions.116 The letter to Antioch’s lay Christians contains normative aesthetic arguments and continues to express imperial commands in a way that makes the people responsible for his ability to please God. Constantine assured the Christians of Antioch of his ‘undying affection’ (ἀθάνατον φιλίαν) but chided their ‘zeal’ (ταῖς σπουδαῖς) in attempting to ‘amputate forcefully’ (ἀφαίρεσιν μᾶλλον) Eusebius from his church in Caesarea.117 Furthermore, Constantine warned that such an act could be construed as provoking civil disorder.118 Citing their testimony to Eusebius’ integrity and sincere loyalty towards one another, the emperor urged them to ‘as [was their] custom, with a good mind make every fitting effort to seek after the man you desire, shutting out all seditious and disorderly shouts’.119 Here, Constantine appealed to their better natures, so to speak, in describing ‘what is’ in the exact terms of what ‘ought to be’: in other words, their commendable zeal for Eusebius should not be taken to the extremes of disturbing the calm of civil order or disregarding ecclesiastical laws against translating bishops between cities. By avoiding such behaviour while pursuing ‘concord’ (ὁμόνοιαν), Constantine claimed that they would make it possible for him to please God.120 The emperor asserted that divine blessing would come based on cooperation concerning the letter’s main imperatives—that these Christians should maintain their bond of unity, preserve the city’s peace, and respect ecclesiastical procedure. The emperor also wrote to Eusebius of Caesarea, praising the bishop for his adherence to such procedure.121 This letter does not seem to contain any aesthetic argument. However, there is a very soft imperative clothed in aesthetic vocabulary

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near the letter’s commencement: ‘May you then abide by those things that are revealed as pleasing to God and harmonious with the apostolic tradition.’122 The emperor described ‘what is’ by referring to Eusebius’ decision that had already taken place.123 Constantine then expressed what ‘ought to be’ in the form of that soft imperative which almost reads like a blessing. He wanted Eusebius to continue acting in God-pleasing ways that agreed with canonical procedure. The logical flow from ‘what is’ to what ‘ought to be’ remains linked by the use of the aesthetic terms ἀρεστά (‘pleasing’ or ‘acceptable’) and σύμφωνα (‘harmonious’). The third and final letter in this sequence was sent to the bishops assembled at Antioch, five of whom are named in its text. Rather than acclaim the decision of these gathered bishops to translate Eusebius into the episcopacy of Antioch as indicating God’s will, Constantine wrote to confirm Eusebius’ decision against accepting his election: ‘It is therefore resolved that [Eusebius’] very just purpose, which should be observed by you all, be confirmed and that he not be torn away from his church’.124 This is not an arbitrary change by the emperor in order to suit some other purpose, nor is it as inconsistent with his pattern as it would appear. Constantine upheld Nicaea’s 15th canon and therefore continued to support as authoritative the decisions reached by an assembly of bishops, even if the bishops themselves did not always abide by this ruling against moving from one city to another.125 Constantine intended his endorsement of Eusebius’ contrary position as a means of holding these bishops accountable for their own prior decisions.126 However, the emperor understood that the Christians of Antioch still needed a bishop and he suggested two names as possibilities: a Cappadocian presbyter named Euphronius and another presbyter, George of Arethusa (who may be the same person as George of Laodicea).127 These nominations by Constantine seem to be an extraordinary intervention of imperial power into the internal affairs of the church. Yet, the presence of two names shows that Constantine still desired that such decisions remain relatively independent of his authority so long as proper order continued to be preserved.128 The imperative to choose between Euphronius and George (or any worthy others) appeared in the form of a normative aesthetic argument: It is therefore good to indicate to your Intelligence both these your colleagues and others, whom you may think worthy to lead as bishop, so that you may determine for yourselves whatever is harmonious with the tradition of the apostles’129 The emperor had begun his letter by informing the bishops, who are named in his greeting, of having received communications from them as well as Eusebius and two imperial officials, Acacius and Strategius.130 ‘I have’, he wrote, ‘after making the needed inquiries, written to the people of Antioch the very thing which is both pleasing to God and fitting for the church’.131 Constantine then told the bishops that he had attached copies of the relevant correspondence so that they, too, would be fully informed.132 To this point, Constantine had described ‘what is’ and now proceeded to implicitly describe what ‘ought to be’: these bishops ought to imitate

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Eusebius’ faithful adherence to the earlier ecclesiastical ruling by rescinding their decision to select him as the shepherd of Antioch’s Christians.133 The command was then given, which was not primarily to imitate Eusebius but to act in harmony with established ecclesiastical procedure by choosing either of the two named candidates or from among any others the bishops themselves might deem suitable. The standard (on the basis of which Constantine tasked the bishops with another election) was the ruling in Nicaea’s 15th canon, and so the type of aesthetic argument here is normative.

Conclusion The analysis in Chapters 4 and 5 presented two significant verbal means by which Constantine articulated his expectation that Christians resolve divisions through compromise. First, as described in Chapter 4, the emperor viewed continuing appeals for justice by Caecilian’s opponents (after two ecclesiastical verdicts against them) in terms of resistance against the will of God and His imperial servant. But Constantine remained committed to avoiding violent coercion against Christians as a means of suppressing such defiance so far as it was possible to maintain civil order, despite his stern rhetoric that threatened harsh measures. Second, the emperor’s perception of new pressures and greater challenges after Licinius’ defeat contributed to a changed approach as he engaged with Christian conflict throughout the East. Around this time, as discussed here in Chapter 5, the emperor’s commands related to such disunity were frequently reinforced by the use of aesthetic arguments, which can be discerned by linking his statements concerning ‘what is’ with ‘what ought to be’ by means of aesthetic language; at the same time, his expressions of command appearing in close proximity with such rhetoric were generally softened in their force by his use of possibility language. Likely anticipating resistance based on prior experiences attempting to resolve the schism in North Africa (during which he responded as a ruler determined to firmly but peacefully quell resistance), Constantine now involved himself with ecclesiastical discord in the East as a mediator desiring to broker a compromise. The emperor continued this latter pattern of communicating in the immediate aftermath of the Council of Nicaea in relation to disputes over both theology and ecclesiastical order. The emperor’s aesthetic language consistently linked his claims regarding ‘what is’ with admonitions of what ‘ought to be’. While there are variations in the exact verbal arrangement, this basic structure of Constantine’s persuasive speech as aesthetic argument remained constant. His commands, frequently clothed in a vocabulary of potentiality as well as aesthetic language, ‘requested’ those addressed to make possible some act of theirs or the emperor’s that was promised to bring a positive result, such as restored unity and divine blessing, the honour of an imperial visit, or the election of a praiseworthy and competent bishop. Constantine, as emperor, determined such results; however, the same language of possibility shifted responsibility for resolving ecclesiastical problems onto the Christians themselves. The desired achievement of restoring ecclesiastical unity in all respects is thus seen to have relied, for Constantine, on

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the extent to which the various disputing parties were willing to accept compromise with one another and reach accommodation with the emperor himself.

Notes 1 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.24–42, 2.48–60. 2 See Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.38: εἰ δὲ τοῖς τοιούτοις διισχυρίζοιντο (‘insist’) λόγοις τινὲς καὶ ταῖς ἀπλήστοις ἐπιμένοιεν (‘persist in’) προαιρέσεσιν, οὐκ ἀτιμώρητον ἑαυτοῖς τὸ τοιοῦτον αἰσθήσονται, καὶ μάλιστα ὁπότε οὕτω τὰ παρ’ ἡμῶν τῷ μεγίστῳ διακονεῖται θεῷ. See also Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.60.2: ὅπερ συνεβούλευσα ἂν πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις, εἰ μὴ τῆς μοχθηρᾶς πλάνης ἡ βίαιος ἐπανάστασις ἐπὶ βλάβῃ τῆς κοινῆς σωτηρίας ἀμέτρως ταῖς ἐνίων ψυχαῖς ἐμπεπήγει (‘immoderately disseminated in the minds of some’). 3 See Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.26.1 (φυλάττοντες), 2.29.1–3 (πεπίστευκα … ἀσφαλῶς … καρτερικὸν καὶ στερρὸν), 2.35.1 (ἀφόβῳ τε καὶ θαρραλέᾳ [τῇ] γνώμην … καταστάντες). Other examples of this language appear in later Constantinian letters; however, these are sparse. See Opitz, Urk. 28. 4 The term ‘aesthetic’ was not used by philosophers until the modern era, yet systematic reflection on art and beauty in relation to truth and goodness is considered to begin with Plato. See Nickolas Pappas, ‘Plato’s Aesthetics’ in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2017 edn.; Edward N. Zalta, ed.), https:// plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2017/entries/plato-aesthetics. Accessed online: 22 September 2017. See also Martin Warner, The Aesthetics of Argument (Oxford: Clarendon, 2016); Stein Haugom Olsen, ‘Literary Aesthetics and Literary Practice’ in Aesthetics and the Philosophy of Art, The Analytic Tradition: An Anthology (2nd edn.; Peter Lamarque and Stein Haugom Olsen, eds.; Hoboken: Wiley-Blackwell, 2019), 527–536 at 530. 5 See Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.20. 6 See, for instance, Opitz, Urk. 25.5, 25.7–8, 27.5–28.3, 33.1, 34.16; Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.18.2–6, 3.60, 4.35–36. 7 Imperatives that Constantine expressed using possibility language appear seven times in these letters. Aesthetic argument and possibility appear three times in direct correlation. The notes in this chapter provide specific references for each of these occurrences. 8 Documents within this chronological range that will be analysed for the purposes of this chapter are Opitz, 25–29, and Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.64–72, 3.60–62. Concerning documents excluded from this analysis on the basis of dates, Opitz followed Eduard Schwartz in dating Urk. 33–34 to the year 333. See Hans-Georg Opitz, Athanasius Werke 3.1: Urkunden zur Geschichte des Arianischen Streites (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1934), 66, 69. However, Timothy Barnes supports a date later than June 325 for Urk. 33 and agrees with the year 333 for Urk. 34. See Timothy Barnes, ‘The Exile and Recalls of Arius’, JThS 60:1 (April 2009), 109–129. Re-examination of Opitz, Urk. 33–34 in light of Barnes’ arguments is inconclusive and does not positively rule out a possible date of 325–327; however, I have chosen to exclude these documents from the present chapter. 9 For this terminology in general, see Monroe E. Beardsley, ‘Aesthetics, History Of’ in The Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Vol. 1 (Paul Edwards, ed.; New York: Macmillan, 1972), 18–22. For examples in ancient Greek and Roman writers, see Pl. Phlb. 64e; Arist. Rh. 3.12.6; Cic. Off. 1.27.94 and De or. 21.70–74. 10 Livy 10.18; cf. S.P. Oakley, A Commentary on Livy: Books VI-X, Vol. 4: Book X (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 210ff. See also Gary Forsythe, A Critical History of Early Rome: From Prehistory to the First Punic War (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), 324–335.

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11 Livy 10.18.13. Translation in Livy: History of Rome, Vol. 4: Books 8-10 (LCL; B.O. Foster, trans.; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1926), 425. 12 Tac., Hist. 3.63–86; cf. Gwyn Morgan, 69 A.D.: The Year of the Four Emperors (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 242–247. See also Kenneth Wellesley, The Year of the Four Emperors (3rd edn.; London: Routledge, 2000), 203–214. 13 Tac., Hist. 3.70. Translation in Tacitus: The Annals and The Histories (Alfred John Church and William Jackson Brodribb, trans.; Moses Hadas, ed.; New York: Modern Library, 2003), 498. 14 Cass. Dio 72.33–36. 15 Cass. Dio 72.34.4. Translation in Dio Cassius: Roman History, Vol. 9: Books 71-80 (LCL; Earnest Cary, trans.; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1927), 63. 16 For text, see Diokletians Preisedikt (Siegfried Lauffer, ed.; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1971), 90–211 at 90–91: disponi fideliter adque ornari decenter honestum publicum et Romana dignitas maiestasque desiderant. 17 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 9.7.5: διόπερ ἐπαξίως ἡ ὑμετέρα πόλις θεῶν ἀθανάτων [ἄφθορον] ἵδρυμά τε καὶ οἰκητήριον ἐπικαλοῖτο. See Simon Corcoran, The Empire of the Tetrarchs: Imperial Pronouncements and Government A.D. 284-324 (Rev. edn.; Oxford: Clarendon Press), 149–150. I have opted for Schwartz’s suggestion of ἄφθορον in place of φόβον, as it makes better sense in English translation. See Eusebius Werke 2.2.: Die Kirchengeschichte (Eduard Schwartz, ed.; Leipzig: Hinrich, 1908), 814. 18 For aesthetic argument in politics, see F.R. Ankersmit, Aesthetic Politics: Political Philosophy Beyond Fact and Value (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), xiii, xvi; Linda M.G. Zerilli, A Democratic Theory of Judgment (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016), 41–82 at 67, 78–80. For aesthetics as a form of persuasion, see Nick McAdoo, ‘Wittgenstein and Aesthetic Education’ in Philosophy and Education: Accepting Wittgenstein's Challenge (Paul Smeyers and J.D. Marshall, eds.; Dordrecht: Springer, 1995), 159–170 at 166–167. 19 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.18.2: καὶ πρῶτον μὲν ἀνάξιον ἔδοξεν εἶναι τὴν ἁγιωτάτην ἐκείνην ἑορτὴν τῇ τῶν Ἰουδαίων ἑπομένους συνηθείᾳ πληροῦν. For the date, see p. 45 in this volume. 20 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.2. 21 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68.3. 22 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.69.2: οὐκοῦν ἑκάτερος ὑμῶν, ἐξ ἴσου τὴν συγγνώμην παρασχών, ὅπερ ἂν ὑμῖν ὁ συνθεράπων ὑμῶν δικαίως παραινῇ δεξάσθω. τί δὲ τοῦτό ἐστιν; οὔτε ἐρωτᾶν ὑπὲρ τῶν τοιούτων ἐξ ἀρχῆς προσῆκον ἦν, οὔτε ἐρωτώμενον ἀποκρίνασθαι. 23 Clifford Ando argues that ‘control through coercion was in some profound sense unnecessary’. See Clifford Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 3–4. 24 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.68–69. 25 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.70–71.1: ἀλλ' ἕνα καὶ τὸν αὐτὸν ἔχετε λογισμόν, ὡς πρὸς τὸ τῆς κοινωνίας σύνθημα δύνασθαι συνελθεῖν. ὑμῶν γὰρ ἐν ἀλλήλοις ὑπὲρ μικρῶν καὶ λίαν ἐλαχίστων φιλονεικούντων, τοσοῦτον τοῦ θεοῦ λαόν, ὃν ὑπὸ ταῖς ὑμετέραις φρεσὶν εὐθύνεσθαι προσήκει, διχονοεῖν οὔτε πρέπον οὔθ' ὅλως θεμιτὸν εἶναι πιστεύεται. 26 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.71.6: καὶ λέγω ταῦτα οὐχ ὡς ἀναγκάζων ὑμᾶς ἐξ ἄπαντος τῇ λίαν εὐήθει, καὶ οἵα δήποτέ ἐστιν ἐκείνη, ζητήσει συντίθεσθαι. δύναται γὰρ καὶ τὸ τῆς συνόδου τίμιον ὑμῖν ἀκεραίως σῴζεσθαι καὶ μία ἡ αὐτὴ κατὰ πάντων κοινωνία τηρεῖσθαι, κἂν τὰ μάλιστά τις ἐν μέρει πρὸς ἀλλήλους ὑμῖν ὑπὲρ ἐλαχίστου διαφωνία γένηται, ἐπειδὴ μηδὲ πάντες ἐν ἅπασι ταὐτὸν βουλόμεθα, μηδὲ μία τις ἐν ἡμῖν φύσις ἢ γνώμη πολιτεύεται. Emphasis is mine. 27 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.72.1.

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28 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.72.2–3. For Constantine’s declared intentions to visit a city or region in relation to his agenda for unity among Christians, see Opt., App. 7; Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.72.2–3, 3.20.2; Opitz, Urk. 25.9. 29 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.72.3: καὶ συγχωρήσατε θᾶττον ὑμᾶς τε ὁμοῦ καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ἅπαντας δήμους ἐπιδεῖν χαίροντα, καὶ τὴν ὑπὲρ τῆς κοινῆς ἁπάντων ὁμονοίας καὶ ἐλευθερίας ὀφειλομένην χάριν ἐπ' εὐφήμοις λόγων συνθήμασιν ὁμολογῆσαι τῷ κρείττονι. 30 For instance, see Pan. Lat. 5.2.1–2 where the panegyrist praises Constantine (c. 311) for being personally present in Autun to reward the well-deserving. For Constantine’s journeys at this time that brought him through Autun, see Barnes, The New Empire of Diocletian and Constantine (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1982), 70. 31 As, for example, in Opt., App. 7 when Constantine threatens to personally set right the schism in North Africa and punish those responsible for it. See also Ath., Apol. Contra Ar. 86, where Constantine describes the sudden and unexpected approach of Athanasius on the road to Constantinople. 32 Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.72.2; Barnes, New Empire, 76. 33 Opitz, Urk. 25. For the June date, see Opitz, Athanasius Werke 3.1, 52. 34 Opitz, Urk. 25.1–4. 35 Opitz, Urk. 25.4: ἠλέγχθη γοῦν ἅπαντα καὶ ἀκριβῶς ἐξήτασται, ὅσα δὴ ἀμφιβολίαν ἢ διχονοίας πρόφασιν ἐδόκει γεννᾶν. 36 Opitz, Urk. 25.5: τριακοσίων γοῦν καὶ πλειόνων ἐπισκόπων ἐπὶ σωφροσύνῃ τε καὶ ἀγχινοίᾳ θαυμαζομένων μίαν καὶ τὴν αὐτὴν πίστιν, ἣ καὶ ταῖς ἀληθείαις ἀκριβὴς τοῦ θείου νόμου πέφυκε πίστις. 37 Two of the best works in English on the fourth-century theological debates are R.P.C. Hanson, The Search for the Christian Doctrine of God: The Arian Controversy, 318381 (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005 [1988]) and Lewis Ayres, Nicaea and its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). Another standard work is Manlio Simonetti, La Crisi Ariana nel IV secolo (Rome: Institutum patristicum Augustinianum, 1975). 38 Hanson, Search for Christian Doctrine, 155–157. See Gen. 14:1–24, with the numerical figure of 318 appearing at 14:14. 39 Opitz, Urk. 25.5. It should be noted that ‘what is’ according to Constantine in this passage need not be taken literally by modern readers from a vantage point when the emperor’s claims here are easily refuted. 40 Opitz, Urk. 25.6: ἀναδεξώμεθα τοιγαροῦν ἣν ὁ παντοκράτωρ παρέσχε γνώμην· ἐπανέλθωμεν ἐπὶ τοὺς ἀγαπητοὺς ἡμῶν ἀδελφούς, ὧν ἡμᾶς τοῦ διαβόλου ἀναιδής τις ὑπηρέτης ἐχώρισεν, ἐπὶ τὸ κοινὸν σῶμα καὶ τὰ γνήσια ἡμῶν μέλη σπουδῇ πάσῃ ἴωμεν. 41 Opitz, Urk. 25.5–6; cf. Urk. 25.2. 42 Opitz, Urk. 25.6: ἐπανέλθωμεν ἐπὶ τοὺς ἀγαπητοὺς ἡμῶν ἀδελφούς, ὧν ἡμᾶς τοῦ διαβόλου ἀναιδής τις ὑπηρέτης ἐχώρισεν, ἐπὶ τὸ κοινὸν σῶμα καὶ τὰ γνήσια ἡμῶν μέλη σπουδῇ πάσῃ ἴωμεν. 43 Opitz, Urk. 25.7: τοῦτο γὰρ καὶ τῇ ἀγχινοίᾳ καὶ τῇ πίστει καὶ τῇ ὁσιότητι τῇ ὑμετέρᾳ πρέπει, ἵνα τῆς πλάνης ἐλεγχθείσης ἐκείνου, ὃν τῆς ἀληθείας ἐχθρὸν εἶναι συνέστηκε, πρὸς τὴν θείαν ἐπανέλθητε χάριν. 44 Opitz, Urk. 25.8: ὃ γὰρ τοῖς τριακοσίοις ὁμοῦ ἤρεσεν ἐπισκόποις, οὐδέν ἐστιν ἕτερον ἢ τοῦ θεοῦ γνώμη, μάλιστα ὅπου γε τὸ ἅγιον πνεῦμα τοιούτων καὶ τηλικούτων ἀνδρῶν ταῖς διανοίαις ἐγκείμενον τὴν θείαν βούλησιν ἐξεφώτισε. See also Opitz, Urk. 25.5. 45 See Opt., App. 5: dico enim, ut se ueritas habet, sacerdotum iudicium ita debet haberi, ac si ipse dominus residens iudicet. nihil enim licet his aliud sentire vel aliud iudicare, nisi quod Christi magisterio sunt edocti. 46 Opitz, Urk. 25.9: διὸ μηδεὶς ἀμφιβαλλέτω, μηδεὶς ὑπερτιθέσθω, ἀλλὰ προθύμως πάντες εἰς τὴν ἀληθεστάτην ὁδὸν ἐπάνιτε.

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47 Opitz, Urk. 25.9: ἳν' ἐπειδὰν ὅσον οὐδέπω πρὸς ὑμᾶς ἀφίκωμαι, τὰς ὀφειλομένας τῷ παντεφόρῳ θεῷ μεθ' ὑμῶν ὁμολογήσω χάριτας, ὅτι τὴν εἰλικρινῆ πίστιν ἐπιδείξας τὴν εὐκταίαν ἡμῖν ἀγάπην ἀποδέδωκεν. 48 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.17–20 = Opitz, Urk. 26. 49 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 5.23–5.26; cf. William Peterson, ‘Eusebius and the Paschal Controversy’ in Eusebius, Christianity, and Judaism (Harold W. Attridge and Gohei Hata, eds.; Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1992), 311–325; James CorkeWebster, Eusebius and Empire: Constructing Church and Rome in the Ecclesiastical History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 221–222, 237–238. See also Marcel Richard, ‘Le comput pascal par octaétéris’, Le Muséon 87 (1974), 307– 339; Alden A. Mosshammer, The Easter Computus and the Origins of the Christian Era (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 109–277. 50 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.20.1. 51 The relevant portion from this lost work is quoted in Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.32.14–19. 52 Opitz, Urk. 23.12; cf. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981), 217. 53 The address ‘to the churches’ is found in Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.17.1. 54 For the letter’s date, see Opitz, Athanasius Werke 3.1, 54. 55 Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 217; cf. Barnes, Constantine: Dynasty, Religion, and Power in the Later Roman Empire (Malden: Blackwell, 2014), 123. 56 For aesthetic language in this letter, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.17.1 (ἔκρινα εἶναί μοι προσήκειν), 3.18.1 (τί γὰρ ἡμῖν κάλλιον, τί δὲ σεμνότερον), 3.18.2 (καὶ πρῶτον μὲν ἀνάξιον ἔδοξεν εἶναί … τοῦ ἐχθίστου τῶν Ἰουδαίων ὄχλου), 3.18.3 (εἰλήφαμεν γὰρ παρὰ τοῦ σωτῆρος ἑτέραν ὁδόν, πρόκειται δρόμος τῇ ἱερωτάτῃ ἡμῶν θρησκείᾳ καὶ νόμιμος καὶ πρέπων), 3.18.6 (ὅπως ἐστὶ δεινόν τε καὶ ἀπρεπὲς … πρσηκούσης ἐπανορθώσεως τυχεῖν), 3.19.1 (ὄθεν ἐπειδὴ τοῦτο ὅυτως ἐπανορθοῦσθαι προσῆκεν), 3.19.2 (οὐδέ γὰρ πρέπει ἐν τοσαύτῃ ἁγιότητι εἶναι τινα διαφοράν, καὶ κάλλιον ἕπεσθαι τῇ γνώμῃ ταύτῃ, ἐν ᾗ οὐδεμία ἔσται ἀλλοτρίας πλάνης καὶ ἁμαρτήματος ἐπιμιξία), and 3.20.1 (πᾶν γὰρ ὄτι δ’ άν ἐν τοῖς ἁγίοις τῶν ἐπισκόπων συνεδρίοις πράττηται, τοῦτο πρὸς τὴν θείαν βούλησιν ἔχει τὴν ἀναφοράν). For possibility language, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.18.2 (ἔξεστι γὰρ τοῦ ἐκείνων ἔθνους ἀποβληθέντος ἀληθεστέρᾳ τάξει, ἣν ἐκ πρώτης τοῦ πάθους ἡμέρας ἄρχι τοῦ παρόντος ἐφυλάξαμεν, καὶ ἐπὶ τοὺς μέλλοντας ἀιῶνας τὴν τῆς ἐπιτρήσεως ταύτης συμπλήρώσιν ἐκτείνεσθαι), and 3.20.2 (ἱνα ἐπειδὰν πρὸς τὴν πάλαι μοι ποθουμένην τῆς ὑμετέρας διαθέσεως ὄψιν ἀφίκωμαι, ἐν μιᾷ καὶ τῇ αὐτῇ ἡμέρᾳ τὴν ἁγίαν μεθ' ὑμῶν ἑορτὴν ἐπιτελέσαι δυνηθῶ καὶ πάντων ἕνεκεν μεθ' εὐδοκήσω). 57 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.17.1: Πεῖραν λαβὼν ἐκ τῆς τῶν κοινῶν εὐπραξίας, ὅση τῆς θείας δυνάμεως πέφυκε χάρις, τοῦτόν γε πρὸ γε πάντων ἔκρινα εἶναί μοι προςήκειν σκοπόν, ὅπως παρὰ τοῖς μακαριωτάτοις τῆς καθολικῆς ἐκκλησίας πλήθεσι πίστις μία καὶ εἰλικρινὴς ἀγάπη ὁμογνώμων τε περὶ τὸν παγκρατῆ θεὸν ἐυσέβεια τηρῆται. 58 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.17.2. 59 See Ando, Imperial Ideology, 83–84. 60 Constantine’s views on Judaism are beyond this study’s scope and purpose. For examples of Constantine’s rhetoric and legislative activity concerning Jews aside from this letter, see Cod. Theod. 16.8.1–5, 16.9.1; Constit. Sirm. 4. See also Günter Stemberger, Jews and Christians in the Holy Land: Palestine in the Fourth Century (Ruth Tuschling, trans.; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 43–47; Jacob Neusner, Judaism and Christianity in the Age of Constantine: History, Messiah, Israel, and the Initial Confrontation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007 [1987]), 13–28. 61 JoAnn G. Magnuson, ‘Following Abraham into the Twenty-First Century: Building Christian-Jewish Relations Today’ in Perspectives on Our Father Abraham: Essays in Honor of Marvin R. Wilson (Steven A. Hunt, ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010), 323–338 at 326.

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62 For a statement of the Council’s decision, see Opitz, Urk. 23.12. 63 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.18.1: τί γὰρ ἡμῖν κάλλιον, τί δὲ σεμνότερον ὑπάρξαι δυνήσεται τοῦ τὴν ἑορτὴν ταύτην, παῥ ἧς τὴν τῆς ἀθανασίας εἰλήφαμεν ἐλπίδα, μιᾷ τάξει καὶ φανερῷ λόγῳ παρὰ πᾶσιν ἀδιαπτώτως φυλάττεσθαι; 64 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.18.2: καὶ πρῶτον μὲν ἀνάξιον ἔδοξεν εἶναι τὴν ἁγιωτάτην ἐκείνην ἑορτὴν τῇ τῶν Ἰουδαίων ἑπομένους συνηθείᾳ πληροῦν, οἳ τὰς ἑαυτῶν χεῖρας ἀθεμίτῳ πλημμελήματι χράναντες εἰκότως τὰς ψυχὰς οἱ μιαροὶ τυφλώττουσιν. ἔξεστι γὰρ τοῦ ἐκείνων ἔθνους ἀποβληθέντος ἀληθεστέρᾳ τάξει, ἣν ἐκ πρώτης τοῦ πάθους ἡμέρας ἄχρι τοῦ παρόντος ἐφυλάξαμεν, καὶ ἐπὶ τοὺς μέλλοντας αἰῶνας τὴν τῆς ἐπιτηρήσεως ταύτης σύμπλήρωσιν ἐκτείνεσθαι. μηδὲν τοίνυν ἔστω ὑμῖν κοινὸν μετὰ τοῦ ἐχθίστου τῶν Ἰουδαίων ὄχλου. 65 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.18.3–4: εἰλήφαμεν γὰρ παρὰ τοῦ σωτῆρος ἑτέραν ὁδόν, πρόκειται δρόμος τῇ ἱερωτάτῃ ἡμῶν θρησκείᾳ καὶ νόμιμος καὶ πρέπων. τούτου συμφώνως ἀντιλαμβανόμενοι τῆς αἰσχρᾶς ἐκείνης ἑαυτοὺς συνηδήσεως ἀποσπάσωμεν, ἀδελφοί τιμιώτατοι. ἔστι γὰρ ὡς ἀληθῶς ἀτοπώτατον ἐκείνους αὐχεῖν, ὡς ἄρα παρεκτὸς τῆς αὐτῶν διδασκαλίας ταῦτα φυλάττειν οὐκ εἴημεν ἱκανοί; Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.19.1: ὅθεν ἐπειδὴ τοῦτο οὕτως ἐπανορθοῦσθαι προσῆκεν, ὡς μηδὲν μετὰ τοῦ τῶν πατροκτόνων τε καὶ κυριοκτόνων ἐκείνων ἔθνους εἶναι κοινόν, ἔστι δὲ τάξις εὐπρεπής, ἣν ἅπασαι αἱ τῶν δυτικῶν τε καὶ μεσημβρινῶν καὶ ἀρκτῴων τῆς οἰκουμένης μερῶν παραφυλάττουσιν ἐκκλησίαι καὶ τινες τῶν κατὰ τὴν ἑῴαν τόπων, οὗ ἕνεκεν ἐπὶ τοῦ παρόντος καλῶς ἔχειν ἅπαντες ἡγήσαντο, καὶ αὐτὸς δὲ τῇ ὑμετέρᾳ ἀγχινοίᾳ ἀρέσειν ὑπεσχόμην, ἵνʹ ὅπερ δʹ ἂν κατὰ τὴν Ῥωμαίων πόλιν Ἰταλίαν τε καὶ Ἀφρικὴν ἅπασαν, Αἴγυπτον, Σπανίας, Γαλλίας, Βρεττανίας, Λιβύας, ὅλην Ἑλλάδα, Ἀσιανήν τε διοίκησιν καὶ Ποντικὴν καὶ Κιλικίαν μιᾷ καὶ συμφώνῳ φυλάττεται γνώμῃ, ἀσμένως τοῦτο καὶ ἡ ὑμετέρα προσδέξηται σύνεσις, λογιζομένη ὡς οὑ μόνον πλείων ἐστὶν ὁ τῶν κατὰ τοὺς προειρημένους τόπους ἐκκλησιῶν ἀριθμός, ἀλλὰ καὶ ὡς τοῦτο μάλιστα κοινῇ πάντας ὁσιώτατόν ἐστι βούλεσθαι, ὅπερ καὶ ὁ ἀκριβὴς λόγος ἀπαιτεῖν δοκεῖ καὶ οὐδεμίαν μετὰ τῆς Ἰουδαίων ἐπιορκίας ἔχειν κοινωνίαν; Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.19.2: ἳνα δὴ τὸ κεφαλαιωδέστατον συντόμως εἴπω, κοινῇ πάντων ἤρεσε κρίσει τὴν ἀγιωτάτην τοῦ πάσχα ἑορτὴν μιᾷ καὶ τῇ αὐτῇ ἡμέρᾳ συντελεῖσθαι. οὐδὲ γὰρ πρέπει ἐν τοσαύτῃ ἀγιότητι εἶναί τινα διαφοράν, καὶ κάλλιον ἕπεσθαι τῇ γνώμῃ ταύτῃ, ἐν ᾗ οὐδεμία ἔσται ἀλλοτρίας πλάνης καὶ ἁμαρτήματος ἐπιμιξία. 66 See Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.20.1. 67 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.20.2: ἤδη καὶ τὸν προειρημένον λόγον καὶ τὴν παρατήρησιν τῆς ἁγιωτάτης ἡμέρας ὑποδέχεςθαί τε καὶ διατάττειν ὀφείλετε, ἵνʹ ἐπειδὰν πρὸς τὴν πάλαι μοι ποθουμένην τῆς ὑμετέρας διαθέσεως ὄψιν ἀφίκωμαι, ἐν μιᾷ καὶ τῇ αὐτῇ ἡμέρᾳ τὴν ἁγίαν μεθʹ ὑμῶν ἑορτὴν ἐπιτελέσαι δυνηθῶ καὶ πάντων ἕνεκεν μεθʹ ὑμῶν εὐδοκήσω, συνορῶν τὴν διαβολικὴν ὡμότητα ὑπὸ τῆς θείας δυνάμεως διὰ τῶν ἡμετέρων πράξεων ἀνῃρημένην, ἀκμαζούσης πανταχοῦ τῆς ἡμετέρας πίστεως καὶ εἰρήνης καὶ ὁμονοίας. 68 Barnes, New Empire, 77; Jan Willem Drijvers, Helena Augusta: The Mother of Constantine the Great and the Legend of Her Finding of the True Cross (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 13. 69 Sozom., Hist. eccl. 1.21. See also Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.8, where Socrates compressed actual events to make it appear that Eusebius of Nicomedia joined Arius at Nicaea’s conclusion in refusing assent to the Council’s creed. 70 Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 226. 71 Opitz, Urk. 27.13, 15–16. 72 Opitz, Urk. 27.9–10. 73 Opitz, Urk. 27.11. 74 Opitz, Urk. 27. For the date, see Opitz, Athanasius Werke 3.1, 58. 75 For Constantine’s view of Nicene theology in this letter, see Opitz, Urk. 27.1– 5. For the title ‘fellow-servant’ and the emperor’s view of his own role, see Urk. 27.6: ἀλλʹ ὑμεῖς, οὓς λοιπὸν ἀδελφοὺς ἡ τῆς ἀγάπης κοινωνία εἰκότως ὑπʹ ἐμοῦ

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προσαγορεύεσθαι ποιεῖ, οὐκ ἀγνοεῖτέ με τὸν ὑμέτερον συνθεράποντα, οὐκ ἀγνοεῖτε τὸ τῆς ὑμετέρας σωτηρίας ὀχύρωμα, οὗ τὴν φροντίδα γνησίως ἐπανῄρημαι, καὶ διʹ οὗ τῶν ἡμετέρων ἐχθρῶν οὐ μόνον τὰ ὅπλα κατεμαχεσάμεθα, ἀλλὰ καὶ ζῶντας ἔτι τὴν ψυχὴν συνκαθείρξαμεν πρὸς τὸ τὴν φιλανθρωπίας ἀληθῆ πίστιν ἐκφάναι. Opitz, Urk. 27.6; cf. Urk. 27.7–8. Opitz, Urk. 27.7: ἀλλʹ ἐγὼ ἐπὶ τοῖς ἀγαθοῖς τούτοις διὰ τὴν τῆς οῖκουμένης μάλιστα ἀνανέωσιν ἔκαιρον. καὶ γὰρ θαύματος ἦν ἄξιον ἀληθῶς ἔθνη τοσαῦτα εἰς ὁμόνοιαν ἐπαγαγεῖν, ἃ πρὸ βραχέος ἐλέγετο τὸν θεὸν ἀγνοεῖν. Opitz, Urk. 27.6–7. Opitz, Urk. 27.7. Opitz, Urk. 27.7–8. Opitz, Urk. 27.8. Opitz, Urk. 27.10–11. Opitz, Urk. 27.12, 17. Opitz, Urk. 27.11. Opitz, Urk. 27.12: ἀλλ' ἔστιν οὐ βραδεῖα θεραπεία, εἴ γε ἐπίσκοπον πιστόν τε καὶ ἀκέραιον νῦν γοῦν λαβόντες πρὸς τὸν θεὸν ἀπίδητε, ὃπερ ἐπὶ τοῦ παρόντος ἐν ὑμῖν ἐστι. Opitz, Urk. 27.17: νῦν ὑμέτερόν ἐστι πρὸς τὸν θεὸν ἐκείνῃ τῇ πίστει βλέπειν, ἣ πάνοντε καὶ γεγενῆσθαι συνέστηκε καὶ εἶναι πρέπει, καὶ διαπράξασθαι ὅυτως, ἵνα ἐπισκόπους ἀγνούς τε καὶ ὀρθοδόξους καὶ φιλανθρώπους ἐχοντες χαίρομεν· εἴ τις δὲ ἢ πρὸς μνήμην τῶν λυμεώνων ἐκείνων ἢ πρὸς ἔπαινον ἀπρονοήτως ἐξαφθῆναι τολμήσει παραχρῆμα τῆς ἰδίας τόλμης διὰ τῆς τοῦ θεράποντος τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦτʹ ἔστιν ἐμοῦ ἐνεργείας ἀνασταλήσεται. For Eusebius of Caesarea’s letter where his statement of faith is reproduced, see Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.8; Theod., Hist. eccl. 1.21; Gel., Hist. eccl. 2.35. Opitz, Urk. 28; cf. Ath., De decret. 2.3; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.8; Sozom., Hist. eccl. 1.21. This letter is cited according to Opitz. On Theodotus of Laodicea, see Mark DelCogliano, ‘The Eusebian Alliance: The Case of Theodotus of Laodicea’, ZAC 12:2 (January 2008), 250–266. Theognis was the bishop of Nicaea at this time and initially pleaded on behalf of Arius at the Council of Nicaea. However, he and several others among Arius’ supporters distanced themselves. See Theod., Hist. eccl. 1.6. Despite this distance, Theognis remained associated with Arius’ chief supporter, Eusebius of Nicomedia, in the eyes of Constantine as this letter indicates. See also Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.9; Sozom., Hist. eccl. 1.21. Opitz, Urk. 28.1: ὅση τῆς θείας ὀργῆς ἡ ἰσχὺς πέφυκε, καὶ ἐξ ὧν Εὐσέβιός τε καὶ Θεόγνιος πεπόνθασιν εὐχερὲς καὶ σὲ μαθεῖν, οἳ εἰς τὴν ἁγιωτάτην παροινοῦντες θρησκείαν τὸ τοῦ σωτῆρος θεοῦ ὄνομα τῷ συστήματι τοῦ οἰκείου λῃστηρίού καί μετὰ τὸ τυχεῖν συγγνώμης ἐμίαναν. Opitz, Urk. 28.1: ὅτε γὰρ μάλιστα μετὰ τὴν τῆς συνόδου ὁμογνώμονα συμφωνίαν ἐχρῆν τὴν προτέραν ἐπανορθώσασθαι πλάνην, τότε τοῖς αὐτοῖς ἀτοπήμασιν ἐμμένοντες ἑάλωσαν. Opitz, Urk. 28.2: διὰ τοῦτο γοῦν ἡ θεία πρόνοια αὐτοὺς τοῦ ἑαυτῆς ἀπωσατο λαοῦ. ἐπειδὴ μηδὲ ἔφερε τὰς ἀκάκους ψυχὰς ὀλίγων ἀπονοίᾳ φθειρομένας καθορᾶν, καὶ νῦν μὲν ἀξίαν παρʹ αὐτῶν ᾔτησε δίκην, μείζονα δὲ καὶ εἰς τὸ ἑξῆς διὰ τοῦ παντὸς αἰῶνος λήψεται. Opitz, Urk. 28.3: ὄπερ τῇ σῇ ἀγχινοίᾳ δηλωθῆναι δεῖν ἡγησάμην, ἵνʹ εἴ τις κακὴ παραίνεσις τῶν τοιούτων, ὡς ἔγωγε οὐκ οἶμαι, τῇ σῇ ἐνεκαθέσθη προαιρέσει, ταύτην τῆς ψυχῆς ἀφελόμενος καθαρὰν ὡς προσῆκε τὴν διάνοιαν εἰλικρινῆ τε καθοσίωσιν καὶ ἄχραντον πίστιν τῷ σωτῆρι θεῷ παρασχέσθαι προθυμηθῇς. καὶ γὰρ τοῦτο προσῆκόν ἐστιν ὑπο τούτου πράττεσθαι, ὃς δʹ ἂν ἀκεραίων τῶν τῆς αἰωνίου ζωῆς ἐπάθλων ἀξιοῦσθαι βουλεύηται. Constantine denied this implication at the same time he made it. Opitz, Urk. 29. For the date, see Opitz, Athanasius Werke 3.1, 63. Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.25. On the possibility that this story is fictional, see Rowan Williams, Arius: Heresy and Tradition (2nd edn.; London: SCM Press, 2001), 74–75.

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95 Opitz, Urk. 29 = Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.25.7. 96 Opitz, Urk. 29: Νικητὴς Κωνσταντῖνος Μέγιστος Σεβαστὸς Ἀρείῳ. Πάλαι μὲν ἐδηλώθη τῆ στερρότητί σου, ὅπως ἂν εἰς τὸ ἡμέτερον στρατόπεδον ἀφίκοιο, ἵνα τῆς ἡμετέρας θέας ἀπολαῦσαι δυνηθείης. θαυμάζομεν δὲ σφόδρα μὴ παραχρῆμά σε τοῦτο πεποιηκέναι. διόπερ νῦν ἐπιβὰς ὀχήματος δημοσίου εἰς τὸ ἡμέτερον στρατόπεδον ἀφικέσθαι ἐπείχθητι, ὅπως ἃν τῆς παρʹ ἡμῶν εὐμενείας τε καὶ ὁμιλίας τυχὼν εἰς τὴν πατρίδα ἐπανελθεῖν δυνηθείης. ὁ θεός σε διαφυλάξει, ἀγαπητέ. ἐδόθη τῇ πρὸ πέντε καλανδῶν δεκεμβρίων. 97 On obstinacy and resistance, see pp. 131–144 in this volume. 98 Opitz, Urk. 29: ὅπως ἂν τῆς παρʹ ἠμῶν εὐμενείας τε καὶ ὁμιλίας τυχὼν εἰς τὴν πατρίδα ἐπανελθεῖν δυνηθείης. 99 For Constantine’s whereabouts at the time, see Barnes, New Empire, 77. 100 Opitz, Urk. 29: ὅπως ἂν εἰς τὸ ἡμέτερον στρατόπεδον ἀφίκοιο, ἵνα τῆς ἡμετέρας θέας ἀπολαῦσαι δυνηθείης. 101 Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 229. 102 For this letter, see Opitz, Urk. 30. 103 Opitz, Urk. 30.5. 104 Opitz, Urk. 31. On this provincial synod, as opposed to a ‘second Council of Nicaea’ that met in 327, see Williams, Arius, 72–74. See also Hanson, Search for Christian Doctrine, 174–176, where he concludes that ‘either a second session of the Council of Nicaea took place or some other official council’ at which Arius was restored. I am persuaded by Williams’ argument for a provincial synod rather than a ‘Nicaea II’ on the grounds that Canon 5 of the Council of Nicaea specifically provides for these to meet twice every two years—one during Lent and the other during autumn—in order to re-examine disputed sentences of excommunication. 105 Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.23; Sozom., Hist. eccl. 2.18. Barnes dates this ‘pamphlet war’ to just prior to the exiles of Eusebius of Nicomedia and Theognis of Nicaea in September or October 325. See Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 227. 106 There is some debate regarding the date of Eustathius’ deposition, for which see R.W. Burgess, ‘The Date of the Deposition of Eustathius of Antioch’, JThS 51:1 (April 2000), 150–160. Rowan Williams and Lewis Ayres each adopt the date of 327, for which see Williams, Arius, 74–75; Ayres, Nicaea and its Legacy, 68–69 with no additional discussion by either author as to issues of dating. 107 Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.24; Sozom., Hist. eccl. 2.19. DelCogliano dates this disturbance to around 328, as two short-lived successors followed Eustathius as bishops of Antioch. He also assumes that Constantine directly intervened by sending the soldiers. See DelCogliano, ‘The Eusebian Alliance’, 259–260. However, this does not reflect the accounts of Eusebius of Caesarea, Socrates, or Sozomen. For Eusebius’ account, see n108. According to Socrates, the violence actually occurred with Antioch’s populace divided over whether to re-instate Eustathius or translate Eusebius from Caesarea. On the other hand, Sozomen pointed to Eustathius’ deposition as sparking the disorder. Sozomen wrote that the violence damaged Eustathius’ reputation in the estimation of Constantine, who regarded the deposed bishop as responsible for the quarrel. If that is true, it would explain Constantine’s sending Eustathius, who supported the Nicene faith, into exile after he was deposed and affirmed that decision in the wake of the violent discord. 108 Eusebius referred obliquely to these events, carefully avoiding any mention of his own responsibility or participation. See Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.59.1–5. 109 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.60–62. 110 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.60.1–9. 111 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.61.1–3. 112 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.62.1–3; Eusebius: Life of Constantine (CAHS; Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall, trans. and ed.; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 306.

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DelCogliano writes that Cameron and Hall’s basis for suggesting Theodotus presided was that his name is listed first. However, Cameron and Hall only make the suggestion itself and do not offer any explicit reason for it. See DelCogliano, ‘The Eusebian Alliance’, 260n50. Cameron and Hall, Eusebius: Life of Constantine, 305. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.60.3, 3.60.5–8, 3.61.2, 3.62.2. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.62.2–3. For the Council of Nicaea’s 15th canon, see Peter L’Huillier, Church of the Ancient Councils: The Disciplinary Work of the First Four Ecumenical Councils (Crestwood: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1996), 70–74. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.61.1–2. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.60.1, 3.60.7. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.60.7. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.60.8: εἰ δὴ ταῦθ' οὕτως ἔχει καὶ οὐ σφαλλόμεθα, τοῦτο πρῶτον θεάσασθε, ἀδελφοί (πολλὰ γὰρ ὑμῖν καὶ μεγάλα ἐκ πρώτης ἀπαντήσεται), πρῶτον ἁπάντων ἡ πρὸς ἀλλήλους γνησιότης τε καὶ διάθεσις εἰ μηδὲν αὐτῆς ἐλαττωθὲν αἰσθήσεται· εἶθ' ὅτι καὶ ὁ δί ὀρθὴν συμβουλὴν ἀφικόμενος τὸ κατ' ἀξίαν ἐκ τῆς θείας κρίσεως καρποῦται, οὐ τὴν τυχοῦσαν χάριν εἰληφώς, τῷ περὶ αὐτοῦ τοσαύτην ὑμᾶς ἐπιεικείας ψῆφον ἐνέγκασθαι. ἐπὶ τούτοις, ὃ τῆς ὑμετέρας συνηθείας ἐστίν, ἀγαθῇ γνώμῃ σπουδὴν τὴν πρέπουσαν εἰσενέγκασθε εἰς ἐπιζήτησιν ἀνδρὸς οὗ χρῄζετε, ἀποκλείσαντες πᾶσαν στασιώδη καὶ ἄτακτον βοήν. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.60.9: οὕτως οὖν τῷ θεῷ τ' ἀρέσαιμι καὶ ὑμῖν κατ' εὐχάς τε τὰς ὑμετέρας διαζήσαιμι, ὡς ὑμᾶς ἀγαπῶ καὶ τὸν ὅρμον τῆς ὑμετέρας πραότητος· ἐξ οὗ τὸν ῥύπον ἐκεῖνον ἀπωσάμενοι ἀντεισηνέγκατε ἤθει ἀγαθῷ τὴν ὁμόνοιαν, βέβαιον τὸ σημεῖον ἐνθέμενοι, δρόμον τε οὐράνιον εἰς φῶς δραμόντες, πηδαλίοις θ' ὡς ἂν εἴποι τις σιδηροῖς. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.61.1: ἀνέγνων [ἥδιστα] τὴν ἐπιστολὴν ἣν ἡ σὴ σύνεσις ἐποιήσατο, καὶ τὸν κανόνα τῆς ἐκκλησιαστικῆς ἐπιστήμης εἰς ἀκρίβειαν φυλαχθέντα κατενόησα. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.61.1: ἐμμένοις γοῦν τούτοις ἅπερ ἀρεστά τε τῷ θεῷ καὶ τῇ ἀποστολικῇ παραδόσει σύμφωνα φαίνεται. Cameron and Hall’s translation does a slight disservice to the Greek text, reading as follows: ‘May you abide by those things which appear both pleasing to God and consonant with the apostolic tradition’. See Cameron and Hall, Eusebius: Life of Constantine, 150. The use of the third-person singular verb φαίνεται should not be rendered ‘appear’ in the sense of ‘seeming’ but as a stronger assertion rather than a suggestion. Cameron and Hall’s translation of σύμφωνα as ‘consonant’ is indeed synonymous with ‘harmonious’. However, this latter word brings out the aesthetic sense in terms of what is fitting rather than agreement. To be sure, Eusebius’ action did indeed agree with apostolic tradition, or at least the recently determined 15th canon of Nicaea. See n108. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.62.2: ἔδοξεν οὖν τὴν οὕτω δικαίαν πρόθεσιν καὶ πᾶσιν ὑμῖν φυλακτέαν κυρίαν μᾶλλον ποιήσασθαι μηδ' ἀποσπάσαι αὐτὸν τῆς ἰδίας ἐκκλησίας. L’Huillier, Church of the Ancient Councils, 73. Some, if not all the bishops addressed in this letter, attended the Council of Nicaea. See Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.7.1. On the identification of George of Arethusa as George of Laodicea, see Mark DelCogliano, ‘George of Laodicea: A Historical Reassessment’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 62:4 (October 2011), 667–692 at 674–675. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.62.2. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.62.3: καλῶς οὖν εἶχεν δηλῶσαι τῇ συνέσει ὑμῶν τούς τε προχειρισαμένους καὶ ἑτέρους, οὓς ἂν ἀξίους ἡγήσησθε πρὸς τὸ τῆς ἐπισκοπῆς ἀξίωμα, ὁρίσαι ταῦτα ἃ τῇ τῶν ἀποστόλων παραδόσει σύμφωνα ἂν εἴη. Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.62.1.

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131 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.62.1: διάσκεψίν τε τὴν δέουσαν ποιησάμενος, πρὸς τὸν Ἀντιοχέων λαὸν ἔγραψα ὅπερ ἀρεστόν τε τῷ θεῷ ἦν καὶ ἁρμόζον τῇ ἐκκλησίᾳ. 132 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.62.1. 133 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.62.1–2. As the implication is described here, it could involve an imitative rather than normative aesthetic argument. The emperor positively singled out Eusebius as having made his decision in harmony with Nicaea’s 15th canon. Constantine also urged the bishops gathered in Antioch to do as well by selecting some other candidate. However, the imperative itself was articulated as normative.

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This final chapter discusses how the doctrines of power continued to function as Constantine’s guiding assumptions about how to wield imperial power in relation to Christianity’s ecclesiastical leadership and belief systems after the Council of Nicaea to the end of his reign. The brief period from Nicaea and its immediate aftermath in 325 until approximately 328 represents the end of initial development in this emperor’s approach to handling conflicts over these issues among Christians. This does not mean his method in dealing with these matters simply ceased further development. Indeed, Constantine can be observed continually altering some of his decisions concerning these ongoing controversies during these final years according to his understanding of the circumstances attached to each case as they came to his attention as well as how he engaged with some powerful personalities that seemed to work at cross-purposes with his efforts to achieve ecclesiastical unity. Yet any such adaptation should not be interpreted as inconsistency in Constantine’s support for particular theological positions or, as Harold Drake has argued, ‘losing control of his agenda’.1 On the contrary, I suggest that the emperor had no more or less power to achieve his own purposes towards settling such disputes during these later years than at any earlier point in his reign. Various shifts in Constantine’s decision-making chiefly concerning three Christian leaders—Arius, Eusebius of Nicomedia, and Athanasius of Alexandria— plainly occurred, and modern narratives attempt to explain such changes. A.H.M. Jones, for example, seeks answers by constructing a psychological portrayal of the emperor as emotionally intense and susceptible to manipulation.2 For Alistair Kee, the emperor was more interested in political unity than theology and was therefore willing to sacrifice orthodoxy for the sake of peace and good order.3 Timothy Barnes portrayed Constantine as preoccupied with converting the empire to Christianity so that any ‘precise (and potentially exclusive) definition of its intellectual content’ was treated as less important.4 Drake argues that consistency may be found in Constantine’s ‘tendency to come down on the side of Christians who would be inclusive, who were “team players,” who worked for consensus’.5 And according to Charles Odahl, the coherence of Constantine’s religious policies at this time can be seen in that ‘[the emperor] demanded both theological orthodoxy and brotherly harmony from the Christian clergy’.6 But even if opposition to DOI: 10.4324/9781003215677-7

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Athanasius by Eusebius of Nicomedia and some Meletians was motivated partly by differences over theology and ecclesiastical practice, the charges actually brought against him concerned public and criminal law.7 Likewise, the cases concerning the rehabilitations of the same Eusebius and Arius were treated as judicial matters requiring imperial decisions. Therefore, I approach the apparent shifts in Constantine’s decision-making from a judicial perspective that attempts to give due consideration to his role as ‘final arbiter of law and justice’.8 The chapter begins by setting the emperor’s duty to dispense justice in its context as a means of projecting, or representing and exerting power. Then, Constantine’s engagements with ecclesiastical conflicts during his final years are examined by focusing on the case of Athanasius and his opponents since this appears most prominently in our sources where the emperor is involved. At this point, two aspects of Constantine’s judicial activity as projections of his power are described: first, the compelling authority of the imperial presence and, second, his consistency in adhering to a broad interpretation of Nicaea’s theology as ecclesiastical law (understood as ‘law affecting the churches’ in terms of an authoritative standard for making judgements in disputes among Christians rather than ‘canon law’). Throughout the chapter, each of these aspects will be shown connecting with and serving to project the doctrines of power that have been the focus of this study.

Roman justice as a projection of imperial power This section does not present a narrative survey of developments in Roman law up to the time of Constantine or treat fully various shifts in his legislative approach throughout his reign. Both of these subjects are treated elsewhere.9 Rather, the purpose here is to draw together in summary form a few threads concerning law and justice that would have contributed to what Constantine understood or assumed about his duty as emperor to administer equitable legal outcomes. To begin with, Roman law and justice were not theoretical constructs underlying the use of imperial power; rather, they were practical demonstrations of it and emphasised doing ‘what ought to be done’ while avoiding the kinds of activities in which it was believed that one should not engage.10 Granting citizens justice in their disputes was a genuine duty of the emperors (as well as the officials acting in his name, such as provincial governors) but also served as a public portrayal and wielding of power.11 On the basis of its practical focus, justice is not presented here as a fourth doctrine of power and does not function as an abstract foundation for the three doctrines that are the subject of this book. For these reasons, I treat issues of law and justice here in this final chapter. The Roman legal system is one of the most significant and lasting achievements of the ancient world inherited by modern Western societies. The concept of law, of course, was not introduced by the Romans but rather adapted, expanded, and systematised by them in ways never before seen in the ancient world.12 A key Roman development was their having modified a basic notion of justice. The Greek philosopher Plato, writing his Republic in the fourth-century bc, abandoned one notion of justice as ‘giv[ing] to each what is owed’ (1:331e) in favour of

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 189 ‘doing one’s own work and not meddling with what isn’t one’s own’ (4:433a).13 However, his discarded definition of rendering to each their due eventually found its way into Roman law.14 For the Romans, generally speaking, giving to each what was owed constituted just action with reference to the community rather than the gods.15 This was not merely Cicero’s view in the mid-first century bc near the end of Rome’s republic but stood at the foundation of Roman law in the Twelve Tables themselves.16 Engraved into bronze tablets and displayed in the Forum, traditionally around the year 450 bc, these laws included religious precepts but were not rooted in divine revelation—unlike, for instance, the Code of Hammurabi (eighteenth-century bc) or the Law of Moses (first or second millennium bc).17 This view prompts questions concerning the locus and exercise of power. Who rightly possessed the power to ‘give’? Who determined what was ‘owed’ and decided to whom it ought to be given? Who, if not the gods, decided what actions would benefit the community? The Romans’ answers to these questions emerged throughout their history. From the traditional date of the Republic’s founding in 509 bc until the establishment of Augustus’ principate around 31 bc, power was generally distributed among ‘multiple sources of decision’ such as the senatorial aristocracy, or the two unofficial ‘triumvirates’—the first involving Julius Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus (60–53 bc), then later Antony, Octavian Caesar, and Marcus Lepidus (43–32 bc).18 After 27 bc, all the functions of power— including the chief priesthood following Lepidus’ death in 13 bc—came into the hands of Augustus.19 Administering justice was one of multiple duties assumed by the emperors and served as a means of exercising power while the claim could be made plausibly that this was done for the common good. Writing in the second century ad, Cornelius Fronto’s advice to Marcus Aurelius on practising eloquence listed some of an emperor’s powers, which included the duty ‘to reform injustices of the law’.20 This assumed that the emperor had legitimate power to determine what ‘injustice’ was in the first place and do what he decided ought to be done in correcting it. For the jurists Gaius and Ulpian, both of whom wrote around the same time as Fronto, whatever the emperor said or committed to writing carried the force of law.21 Carlos Noreña believes such power was more an ideological construct than reality as emperors acted ideally according to such restraining virtues as piety (pietas) and clemency (clementia). Even apart from ideals of imperial virtue, there were practical constraints on an emperor’s power such as successful aristocratic generals (who could be potential usurpers) along with the collective and competing interests of the legions or influential senators.22 Nevertheless, what emperors did to manage such varied concerns, how they were perceived, and the degree to which they might be successful in manipulating such perception through self-presentation contributed towards their ability to credibly assert their position as the final court of appeal. By the early third century, imperial prestige had grown to the point that senator and historian Cassius Dio could describe emperors as even being above the law rather than merely its last arbiter.23 Focus on the emperor’s central public role in matters of law and justice continued until about the late third and early fourth centuries when juridical writings

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were ‘replaced by private rescripts as the major engine of legal development’ under Diocletian.24 As found in the law codes of emperors Theodosius II and Justinian I—compiled in the fifth and sixth centuries, respectively—Constantine’s surviving legislation shows that he was a kind of ‘conservative innovator’ in legal affairs. Jill Harries notes that while legal texts were promulgated as an emperor’s own words, they actually combined imperial decisions with what his officials accepted as compatible with Roman legal tradition; even so, ‘the emperor had the power to disregard precedent, create his own rules, and even perhaps impose his own style’.25 Constantine’s most significant modifications had to do with his statutes affecting Christian clergy and heretics. Two well-known examples are a law (usually understood as issued in 318) to allow for the transfer of a judicial case from a civil court to one presided over by a bishop, and several statutes published between 313 and 330 that declared Christian clergy exempt from compulsory public services.26 An additional pair of laws, each issued in September 326, serve as examples of Constantinian legislation concerning heretics and schismatics. The first clarified that official release from public obligations to be extended towards Christian clergy applied only ‘to those who observe[d] the Catholic law’ (catholicae tantum legis observatoribus prodesse oportet).27 The second allowed those belonging to the Novatian sect, whom this law deemed insufficiently ‘precondemned’ (praedamnatos), to maintain possession of long-held property such as church buildings and burial grounds despite their disassociation from mainstream ecclesiastical Christianity. However, the same law prohibited these Novatians from any subsequent attempt to obtain property belonging to ‘Catholic’ Christians.28 This departure from Constantine’s having earlier confiscated property belonging to a condemned schismatic group may have resulted from the Novatians’ acceptance of Nicaea’s theological definition as well as their assent to the Council’s eighth canon concerning them directly.29 The need for at least some legislative novelty under Constantine is obvious, given the unprecedented situation that his public identification with Christianity after October 312 presented for the Roman Empire and Christian churches. But in all other areas, Constantine retained a typical imperial attachment to previous example (exemplum) and limited innovations to those mainly serving pragmatic purposes.30 Whether or not to follow precedents in his decision-making was in his power to determine, according to his understanding of specific circumstances. Normally, Constantine chose to align with established patterns. Even his interventions in ecclesiastical concerns could claim the authority of precedent, as some bishops had petitioned the emperor Aurelian to grant justice in a property dispute with one of their own number who had recently been deposed by a church council.31 Aurelian’s decision—which favoured these bishops against their toppled opponent, Paul of Samosata—specifically concerned the property itself in light of Rome’s legislative primacy.32 But that ruling did not indicate Aurelian supported, opposed, or cared anything about the theological issues then in question between the disputing parties. Even so, that emperor’s stipulation awarding ownership of the property to those with whom the bishops of Rome and Italy would communicate in writing (ἐπιστέλλοιεν) had the unintended consequence

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 191 of signalling imperial support for or disapproval of ecclesiastical decisions.33 Later, Constantine determined the course of justice where property (as well as the church’s theological and organisational subjects) was disputed.34 Like previous emperors, he ‘worked within a system of private law that … was founded on “remedies”, on finding legal solutions to tricky social situations, disputes, and case-specific problems’.35 He held to conventional imperial patterns by choosing to respect the relative autonomy of ecclesiastical processes while exercising this authority over all property within the imperial domain. His decisions concerning property or legal status could be taken to indicate the official promotion of one party or another in an ecclesiastical dispute: this is why imperial documents, both forged and authentic, formed part of the authoritative basis on which those on either side in arguments over theology or ecclesiastical practice might stake their respective positions. Yet for the individuals directly involved in specific cases that came to the emperor’s notice, as we will see in the next section, simply appearing in the imperial court had its own compelling effect.

The persuasive power of the imperial presence: projecting the doctrine of resistance and compromise The presence of a reigning emperor could be found everywhere as an ‘embodiment of empire’, disseminated throughout the provinces by means of visual image, verbal representation, and personal representatives.36 However, an emperor’s physical presence could inspire nearly religious awe through the pomp and ritual of court ceremony, splendour of the immediate surroundings, and magnificence of his carefully attired personal appearance.37 An obvious example from Constantine’s reign can be found in Eusebius of Caesarea’s retrospective description of the emperor’s appearance at the Council of Nicaea in the Life of Constantine: On the day appointed for the Council, on which it was to reach a resolution of the issues in dispute, everyone was present to do this in the very innermost hall of the palace, which appeared to exceed the rest in size. Many tiers of seating had been set along either side of the hall. Those invited arrived within, and all took their appointed seats. When the whole council had with proper ceremony taken their seats, silence fell upon them all, as they awaited the emperor’s arrival. One of the emperor’s company came in, then a second, then a third. Yet others led the way, not some of the usual soldiers and guards, but only of his faithful friends. All rose at a signal, which announced the emperor’s entrance; and he finally walked along between them, like some heavenly angel of God, his bright mantle shedding lustre like beams of light, shining with the radiance of a purple robe, and decorated with the dazzling brilliance of gold and precious stones. Such was his physical appearance.38 Eusebius proceeded to describe Constantine’s downcast eyes and the blush on his face as indicating the emperor’s reverence and humility in the presence of God’s

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ministers on such a solemn occasion. This conspicuous show of imperial deference combined with other bodily characteristics (such as, according to Eusebius, his great height and excellent physical condition) to inspire the clergy with a particular image of their emperor in attendance at this great Council.39 Here was an emperor who, despite Eusebius’ impressions of his superlative and semi-divine appearance, nevertheless chose to acknowledge his inferior status relative to God and display meekness before His bishops. Such ostentatious courtesy reached its climax as Constantine approached his golden chair but waited to sit until the bishops had nodded their permission.40 Given this impressive manifestation of outstanding modesty, it is not difficult to discern just what kind of effect it was supposed to have. Constantine’s dazzling appearance, the processional preceding it, and deliberate adaptations of court ceremony to display imperial meekness raised the bishops’ status while keeping the emperor at the centre of focus set the stage for how the Council proceeded to conduct its business: Constantine assumed a leading role by participating in the bishops’ deliberations and steering them towards unity without determining the general outcome unilaterally.41 This extended his role as a mediator in ecclesiastical conflict expressed verbally in his earlier letter to Alexander and Arius, guided by a doctrine of resistance and compromise in which the emperor used his physical presence as a persuasive rather than a coercive tool. Constantine’s initial impression of Nicaea’s success may have encouraged him to rely more on the compelling power of being personally present to adjudicate in subsequent disputes between Christians. Yet the Council’s manifest failure to restore ecclesiastical unity in any lasting sense also affected the emperor’s responses to these later conflicts. In the controversies after Nicaea involving Arius, Athanasius, and Eusebius of Nicomedia, Constantine relied on using his physical presence according to two modes. He continued to extend the promise of an imperial visitation during these later years of his reign, as in the previous decade or so after his defeat of Maxentius in 312 until the Council.42 This functioned as a reward for compliance, a threat of punishment for contravening his will, or to declare his intention to judge in a particular dispute. For example, the emperor held out the honour of an imperial visit to the Christians of Alexandria in 325 as an incentive to reconcile with one another as determined by the recently concluded Council of Nicaea.43 In a letter (dated 333) that provided Athanasius with imperial support as bishop of Alexandria against his Meletian opponents, Constantine warned that he would personally judge these Meletians according to civil law if any further disturbances came to his attention.44 The emperor’s letter of 335 to the Council of Tyre ended with a threat to scatter, crush, and utterly destroy (διασκεδασθέντων δηλαδὴ καὶ συντριβέντων ἅρδην καὶ παντελῶς ἀφανισθέντων) those determined in his judgement to have perverted that council’s proceedings.45 Another use of his presence during this later period was the authority of an imperial summons, which served the same purposes as a visitation.46 The main difference was that Constantine never fulfilled his recorded promises to make an official visit; however, he expected the swift obedience of anyone summoned to appear before him in court. He had written around 315–316 to Celsus, vicarius of

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 193 Africa, that he would personally demonstrate to the divided Christians there how God was rightly worshipped: however, no journey to Africa was ever made by this emperor. Yet in the same letter, Constantine declared that Caecilian’s opponents had committed a ‘most foul deed’ (turpissimo facto) by failing to appear before him. He also suggested to Alexander and Arius late in 324 that reports of their conflict had forestalled his coming to Egypt, though he never subsequently followed through on any such plans.47 Constantine wrote to Arius in 327 as if he had summoned the latter once already and professed amazement that Arius had not yet come.48 Further examples are particularly numerous in the years after 325 and will be discussed in more detail below to illustrate how such uses by Constantine of his personal presence projected his doctrine of resistance and compromise. The earlier shift in Constantine’s language from harsher to softer tones, as argued in Chapters 4 and 5, indicated the presence of this doctrine underlying his words. The doctrine was primarily demonstrated in the years after Nicaea by use of the persuasive or compelling power of his physical presence in continuing to promise official visits or summoning others to his court. As resistance by some Christians continued against the emperor’s efforts to lead them towards ecclesiastical unity during these later years, he relied on the authoritative weight of being face-to-face with them as an additional means of pressing for a mutually satisfying end to divisions. This could be seen as the emperor taking more direct control of resolving such matters due to his own loss of patience, but it should also be noted that the context of the disputes that engaged him after Nicaea was (in surviving letters) largely judicial in nature and might therefore be expected to involve him anyway. While civil and criminal cases were mostly heard in the courts of urban and praetorian prefects or provincial governors, direct imperial oversight of disputes between individuals or communities indicated their importance (and could confer such prestige on them). Lower-ranking magistrates might see fit to refer certain cases to the emperor, either on appeal by a litigant or when the judge determined that rendering an appropriate verdict would be too difficult. Furthermore, any decision given by an emperor could not be easily reversed.49 The parties involved in a dispute benefitted from the significance assigned to or recognised in their case (or in them) by gaining a hearing before the imperial court, while a magistrate might shift responsibility to a higher authority and free up an already considerable case load for other proceedings that lay more within their realm of competence. But all of this ultimately reinforced an emperor’s position at the centre of power as he remained the source of prestige sought and granted or withheld and continued to be looked on as the pre-eminent authority most capable of rendering justice in the final instance. Thus, Constantine’s increased personal involvement in cases concerning Christians that repeatedly came to his attention in the years after Nicaea could work to his political advantage and need not be understood as an emotional reaction to years of unsuccessful attempts at achieving ecclesiastical unity. Analysing each instance of explicitly judicial language during Constantine’s three decades in power is beyond the scope of this chapter, despite the prominence of such rhetoric in relation to ecclesiastical conflicts.50 It is also not my purpose

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to provide yet another narrative of ecclesiastical politics during the final years of Constantine’s reign but to focus rather on two aspects of this emperor’s judicial activity that appear most conspicuously in his correspondence remaining from this later period of his rule: his declared intentions to visit particular areas and actual orders directing others such as these to present themselves before him. The apparent fact that Constantine appears to have done so mainly in a judicial context rather than being consistently present at subsequent church councils reflects the nature of our surviving evidence. Much of Constantine’s ecclesiastical correspondence that we have from these later years, as we will see, describes judicial situations in which the emperor was the leading decision-maker rather than an arbitrator of or participant in debate with assemblies of bishops. These documents are mainly preserved in two works by Athanasius of Alexandria, which are the Apology Against the Arians (c. 349) and Decrees of the Nicene Council (c. 352).51 Some copies of these as well as a few additional documents appear in the fifthcentury ecclesiastical histories of Socrates, Sozomen, Theodoret, and Gelasius, who generally follow Athanasius in their narratives of the period.52 Despite the prominence of Arius’ name in fourth-century theological debate, he became a relatively marginal figure in the disputations that followed the Council as compared with others such as Marcellus of Ancyra, Asterius ‘the Sophist’, or Eustathius of Antioch.53 Yet, after Nicaea’s conclusion, Constantine held only Arius to blame for spreading heresy and division (having earlier reproached both Arius and Alexander in equal measure).54 The emperor urged the Christians of Alexandria in this same letter (dated after June 325) to accept Nicaea’s theological decision and be restored to unity with those who were separated from the church by Arius, whom he called ‘a shameless servant of the devil’ (τοῦ διαβόλου ἀναιδής τις ὑπηρέτης).55 Constantine equated these Alexandrian Christians’ compliance with a return to divine favour: ‘This is fitting for your discernment and piety, that you return to divine favour, since it has been decided and proven that error is from the one who is an enemy of the truth’.56 Again, Arius was singled out by Constantine as the ‘enemy of the truth’. The emperor implied that such acquiescence to his interpretation of the divine will would merit the honour of an imperial visit: Wherefore, let no one fall on both sides [of the matter] or delay, but let all eagerly return to the truest path so that when I arrive, as soon as possible, I might acknowledge with all of you my gratitude to the God who sees all things for having displayed the pure faith, and for restoring the love which was prayed for.57 He wrote later in 325 to Christians in Nicomedia, warning those who ‘recklessly dare[d] bring to remembrance or to give praise without consideration [to Eusebius of Nicomedia and Theognis of Nicaea, allies of Arius who were also sent into exile after Nicaea]’.58 Eusebius of Nicomedia was the primary subject of Constantine’s acrimonious words here, yet it was the deposed bishop’s alleged continued communication with and support for Arius—whose ‘madness’ the emperor claimed

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 195 had stirred up the strife to begin with—that earned Eusebius his exile along with accusations of having earlier assisted Licinius against Constantine.59 The emperor was absent from Nicomedia at the time he wrote this letter, but he remained close enough to the city that it would be possible return quickly to confront any recalcitrant supporters of the exiled or reasonably expect immediate obedience to an imperial summons.60 Concluding this letter with a brief explanation for acting against Eusebius (whose supposed political and theological faults were described at length), Constantine mentioned having earlier summoned ‘some Alexandrians’, who were probably Arius and Euzoius, to be judged by him for ‘stirring up the flames of discord’.61 These individuals were those towards whom Eusebius and Theognis acted hospitably and thus merited banishment, according to this letter. Within six months of the Council of Nicaea, then, Constantine made it clear that he held Arius responsible for theological discord in the East, enforced Nicaea’s decision by exiling him along with supporters such as Euzoius, and treated those reputed to remain in contact with Arius as heretics themselves. The emperor extended the honour of an official visit to the Christians of Alexandria as a reward if they restored unity successfully according to the terms set by Nicaea. The same promise was presented as a threat against any supporters of the condemned heretic Arius, who (along with Euzoius) had been summoned into the emperor’s presence for judgement and sentence following the Council. Upon receiving reports that Eusebius of Nicomedia and Theognis of Nicaea remained in contact with Arius, Constantine exiled them as well. However, these sentences were soon reversed in each case. Constantine summoned Arius for apparently the second time in a letter dated 27 November 327 (we do not have a record of the first, to which the emperor referred in this letter). The emperor granted Arius permission to travel using the privileged and relatively speedy public transport and promised him a safe return. He further suggested that ‘benefit’ (ἀπολαῦσαι) and ‘favour’ (εὐμενείας) would accompany Arius’ arrival.62 The letter’s overall tone seems positive, but it is of rather a terse length and refers to Arius’ ‘obstinacy’ (ςτερρότητί). Constantine made it clear in writing a second time that he expected Arius to obey the summons: granting the use of public transport was as much a means of removing any excuse for delay as any kind of privilege. What did the emperor expect from having Arius appear before him? The letter he wrote to Alexander, bishop of Alexandria, at the beginning of 328 provides a possible answer.63 Constantine claimed in this letter that the excommunicated presbyter (and presumably Euzoius) had appeared before him at the ‘demand of a majority (ἐκ παρακλήσεως πλείστων) … knowing quite plainly the will of the royal command’ (γνόντες δηλονότι τὴν τοῦ βασιλικοῦ προστάγματος βούλησιν).64 Arius and Euzoius submitted their written statement at this time to the emperor who found it sufficiently orthodox.65 The emperor’s presence served two purposes at this juncture. First, Constantine could expect that Arius’ and Euzoius’ experience of being at his court would help silently compel their consent to accept the Council of Nicaea. Second, by recounting this episode to Alexander, Constantine intended to oblige the bishop to receive these men into communion. The emperor did not ‘request’ (as Barnes wrote) but ordered

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Alexander to restore Arius and Euzoius: ‘I have therefore dispatched [this letter] not only to remind you, but am beseeching (ἱκετεύοντας) you to receive these worthy men.’66 Barnes may have read ἱκετεύοντας too literally. There is a strong sense of urging, but it is a command disguised in the language of request (similar to instances in which the emperor used his vocabulary of possibility to the same effect). Granted that restoration to church fellowship was conditional upon Alexander’s satisfaction that Arius and Euzoius genuinely renounced heresy, Constantine nevertheless vouched for them with the bishop of Alexandria that this was so.67 Therefore, Alexander could not oppose their restoration without appearing to resist the emperor’s will. Even so, Alexander sent Athanasius (one of his deacons at the time) with a reply to Constantine that Barnes describes as ‘polite and respectful, but firm in its refusal to obey’.68 The emperor’s support for Arius’ restoration at this stage stirred Eusebius and Theognis to petition their own return from exile.69 Alexander died in Athanasius’ absence on 17 April 328. The late bishop’s favoured deacon returned and was consecrated as the new bishop of Alexandria under questionable circumstances on 8 June that year.70 Within two or three conflict-ridden years of his election, Athanasius received a letter from Constantine taking up the earlier matter of Arius’ desired restoration to communion. Like his episcopal predecessor, Athanasius refused any compromise concerning Arius and would not receive him.71 For Athanasius, like Alexander before him, a condemned heretic by definition could not be returned to communion with the orthodox.72 Such scruples were too much for Constantine, who demanded that Athanasius reconsider his position. A telling fragment of the emperor’s letter to the new bishop of Alexandria survives (dated c. 330–331) and is quoted here in full: Having therefore knowledge of my will, allow unhindered right of entrance to all who wish to enter into the church. For if I learn that you have prevented or debarred any who lay claim to entrance into the church, I will immediately send someone who will depose you by my command, and will remove you from your place.73 The emperor thus repeated and made explicit his earlier command to Alexander that Arius should be received into communion. But now the order to Athanasius included a penalty clause for non-compliance. Unlike some previous letters, this penalty clause does not threaten an imperial visit to judge or punish directly. It does warn that Constantine would depose Athanasius by means of a commissioned imperial representative, whether this be a bishop, a group of bishops acting in the emperor’s name, or a civil magistrate with military support. Some combination of the latter two possibilities seems likely, and such an agent (or agents) was an extension of the emperor himself. Deposing a bishop on imperial authority was a threat not seen in any of Constantine’s previous communications, in spite of their occasionally vivid imagery and violent tone. It had no precedent and was likely a step towards coercion in religion that Constantine himself did not want to

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 197 take.74 But if restoring Arius would be a battle of wills, then Constantine intended to communicate at this stage that he would be the victor. However, his ominous posture towards Athanasius around 330–331 shifted in a more positive direction by early 332.75 In the brief intervening time, Athanasius sent two representatives to plead his case before the imperial court concerning charges by the Meletians that the bishop had illegally demanded a contribution of linen tunics as if raising a tax.76 Barnes helpfully explains the context for such an accusation: This is not a tax on linen tunics (as has sometimes been supposed), but a demand that tunics be supplied to Athanasius for distribution to the poor and needy, or else for liturgical use. The charge presupposes an imperial grant of supplies in kind to the church, a grant whose terms permitted the bishop of Alexandria to ask individuals to give him tunics to discharge what was, in strict legality, an obligation to the state or the emperor.77 In effect, Athanasius’ opponents accused him of acting unilaterally in an area reserved for imperial authority. Constantine ordered Athanasius to appear before him so the charges could be investigated but ultimately judged in the bishop’s favour.78 Then, in winter 331–332, the emperor summoned Athanasius to appear on four charges. Two of these—that Athanasius was below the canonical age limit when consecrated bishop and that a priest broke a sacred chalice by overturning an altar on the bishop’s orders—were matters of ecclesiastical discipline related to Constantine’s handling of divine favour.79 If Athanasius’ consecration were judged invalid and the emperor upheld that decision, then he was not the lawful bishop of Alexandria. Likewise, if it could be determined that Athanasius were guilty of sacrilege, then he could not be trusted as a priestly conduit of God’s favour. In either event, Athanasius would no longer be recognised as the custodian of considerable resources granted by imperial patronage. Such benefits would be removed from Athanasius’ control and given to his replacement so that the emperor might continue such displays of successfully managing divine favour. The other two charges represented more overtly political challenges to Constantine’s authority: the accusation about the linen tunics was repeated and joined by the allegation that Athanasius had bribed an imperial secretary named Philumenus for treasonous purposes during the Council of Nicaea.80 Barnes speculates this may have been connected with one of Constantine’s personal guards who fled after being suspected of plotting to assassinate the emperor; however, he acknowledges that this event cannot be securely dated.81 It is also unclear why this particular accusation against Athanasius was brought to Constantine’s attention approximately six years after the bribery allegedly took place. The emperor acquitted Athanasius a second time, who returned to Alexandria carrying an imperial letter addressed to the city’s Catholic Christians.82 Dated before Easter 332, the letter concludes with Constantine’s endorsement of Athanasius as the rightful bishop of Alexandria.83 These Christians were, therefore, to accept the emperor’s decision and imitate his actions in receiving Athanasius.84

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Afterwards, in 333, John Arcaph (a leader among Athanasius’ Meletian accusers) received an imperial letter that rewarded him for renewing communion with Athanasius by inviting him to court and granting use of the cursus publicus.85 During the same year, the emperor renewed his involvement in Arius’ continued hopes for restoration to the church of Alexandria. Since Arius’ meeting with Constantine in 328 and Athanasius’ refusal to admit him to communion by 330, the ousted presbyter found his briefly resurgent cause marginalised amid the struggle between Athanasius and Eusebius of Nicomedia. Arius subsequently complained to Constantine about his stalled restoration but may have overstepped acceptable boundaries when he emphasised the strength of his popular following.86 The emperor responded with a long and scathing letter to Arius (dated 333).87 In addition to invectives against what Constantine understood at this time (likely due to Athanasius’ influence) to be Arius’ true theology, the emperor was angered by the latter’s apparent claim that ‘we have the masses’. He repeated the phrase four times in this letter and probably understood it in terms of a potential subversion of his own authority.88 He, therefore, wrote to put Arius firmly in his place as well as warn him against any further verbal cleverness as he now believed was shown when initially supporting Arius for re-admission to the church. However, he also indicated in the letter’s conclusion that (despite the inflammatory rhetoric throughout the document) he would judge Arius fairly. Here, he ordered Arius once more to appear before him to face judgement. This time, rather than accepting another written creed at face value, the emperor pledged to investigate the depths of Arius’ heart and heal him of any madness.89 Based on a surfacelevel reading of the letter, Constantine’s decision against Arius seems to be a foregone conclusion. Certainly, the letter as a whole must be taken into account when interpreting specific passages like this one. But it is intriguing to observe that the promised result of Arius’ obeying this particular summons was said to be ‘heal[ing]’ (ἰάσομαι) rather than punishment. As demonstrated in Chapter 3, Constantine used metaphors of healing to indicate the type of unity that could admit a certain amount of variety. Thus, the vivid denunciations of Arius throughout this letter concluded with hope extended to the disfellowshipped presbyter and his followers. Arius’ supporters had to break off their association with him, while he himself was required to appear before the emperor. According to Constantine, compliance on both counts would result in recovered unity among the Christians of Alexandria. The emperor merely required satisfaction as to the genuineness with which Arius claimed to hold orthodox views, not necessarily a precise agreement with Alexander or Athanasius’ opinions in every detail. Despite the overwhelmingly negative tone in this letter, as well as an accompanying edict that ordered the destruction of Arius’ writings, Constantine allowed him to appear before the second session of the Council of Tyre (335), which met at Jerusalem in connection with a dedication festival for the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.90 Meanwhile in spring 334, Constantine ordered his half-brother, the censor Dalmatius (an official in charge of the census, who also oversaw morals and public finance), to investigate a charge of murder brought against Athanasius by some Meletians.91 A Meletian bishop named Arsenius of Hypsele (near modern

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 199 Shtub, Egypt) seems to have gone missing sometime between 327 and 329, and Athanasius was blamed for having him killed.92 However, the emperor cancelled these proceedings on receiving word that Arsenius was discovered very much alive after Athanasius sent one of his deacons in search of the alleged ‘victim’.93 Furthermore, Constantine dismissed the charge regarding the broken chalice that was repeated at this time.94 Both of these accusations and Athanasius’ acquittal were included in a letter (dated 334) the emperor ordered to be read aloud publicly.95 This letter to Athanasius concludes with Constantine’s promise to devote personal attention to the matter according to civil rather than ecclesiastical law if any further commotion were excited.96 Whether this implied an imperial visitation for giving judgement or a summons to judicial proceedings before the emperor’s court is unclear. At any rate, Constantine neither visited nor summoned any of the parties involved. Instead, he convened the Council of Tyre, which met in two sessions in 335.97 The emperor did not attend this council personally but presided through a representative named Flavius Dionysius.98 Constantine urged the bishops, in his letter summoning them to Tyre, to reach their decisions quickly with impartial fidelity to established ecclesiastical procedures.99 However, his decision to send Dionysius instead of being present himself doomed any hope for unity from the start for two reasons. First, allowing those bishops invested in the council’s outcome to choose its composition handed them control of the proceedings. Constantine might have intended this action to keep responsibility for resolving disputes among Christians with the bishops. This had long been his preference. But the result eventually proved to be the same as in 313 when he had allowed Caecilian and his accusers to choose an equal number of representatives to appear at Rome before Miltiades.100 Second, appointing Dionysius to preside also took direct control of procedure and outcome out of Constantine’s hands: by contrast, the emperor’s presence and participation at Nicaea arguably contributed to a stronger likelihood that the Council might achieve the emperor’s aims towards unity. Constantine’s absence from Tyre may have inadvertently ensured that this council would accomplish little more than prolonging the disputes while hardening the positions of all sides.101 Athanasius abandoned the Council of Tyre before its Jerusalem-based second session concluded in mid-September 335 and subsequently made a dramatic (but ultimately unsuccessful) attempt to turn the power of the emperor’s presence to his advantage.102 The bishops at this council unseated and replaced Athanasius in absentia, received his Meletian opponents into communion, and accepted Arius’ views as orthodox.103 Athanasius fled towards Constantinople, where he encountered Constantine on 6 November 335 just outside the city as the emperor was returning on horseback (perhaps from Nicopolis, on the opposite side of the Greek peninsula, where he is previously recorded as present in a surviving law dated 23 October 335).104 The deposed bishop’s sudden appearance might have been calculated but was surely a desperate gamble.105 Constantine sent a letter (perhaps the following day, 7 November 335, as the result of this meeting with Athanasius) that summoned the bishops at Tyre to appear before him in Constantinople.106 The emperor described in this letter what happened, confessing astonishment at

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such an unexpected encounter, and said that at first he even failed to recognise Athanasius.107 He was also probably alarmed. Imperial etiquette and ceremony had changed in the last 50 years, partly to increase an emperor’s protection against assassination.108 Athanasius was fortunate not to be cut down immediately by Constantine’s guards, according to Harold Drake, who also suggests this ‘sudden’ appearance was coordinated between the deposed bishop and sympathetic courtiers.109 This is possible, given the difficulties of gaining imperial access as well as what Christopher Kelly has described as a ‘double pressure’ exerted where the interests of later Roman bureaucracy and autocracy were concerned. On the one hand, the necessity of delegating authority to a bureaucracy (including personal attendants and courtiers) strengthened their power at the emperor’s expense; however, an emperor’s ability to act outside the established patterns expected by bureaucrats allowed him to keep them in a dependent position.110 Taking this into account, some possible collusion beforehand between Athanasius and certain sympathetic individuals near the emperor is reasonable to imagine. Furthermore, given Athanasius’ stated reluctance to attend the Council of Tyre (at which he expected his enemies to dominate the proceedings), it is within the realm of possibility that his ‘sudden’ departure from Tyre and appearance before Constantine may have been orchestrated beforehand with help from the imperial court.111 The emperor did not mention in this letter any role by his officials in enabling Athanasius to play his part in this unusual manner. However, he did describe how some in his entourage both identified Athanasius and informed him of ‘the injustice which [the unseated bishop] had suffered’ (καὶ ὅστις καὶ τὴν ἀδικίαν ἣν πέπονθε). The most that can be said, given the lack of other evidence for this encounter, is that there were those close to Constantine at the time who did recognise Athanasius and were acquainted (and perhaps sympathetic) with his viewpoint in the controversies surrounding him.112 However, it should be noted that by referring to ‘injustice’ (ἀδικίαν) against Athanasius, Constantine did not record verbatim what these courtiers told him; rather, he recalled the incident after hearing Athanasius’ one-sided account. Constantine wrote to these bishops that he at first had no intention of listening to Athanasius, though he did not order him led away.113 According to the emperor, Athanasius demanded only that his accusers be summoned ‘so that he might be able to complain before [the emperor] in [their] presence of ill-treatment’.114 Ruling as a Roman emperor, according to long-standing custom, involved the expectation that he would be accessible and listen to his subjects. Emperors were therefore judged on their approachability and courtesy in hearing and responding to requests.115 However, this observation by Fergus Millar seems contrary to the development of an emperor’s position by the early fourth century into one of remoteness and difficulty of access.116 Even so, it would be all the more useful to later emperors such as Constantine whenever they were described as accessible. Whatever difficulties of access (probably less severe at this time for a bishop of Alexandria, even if deposed, than for an average citizen of any other part of the empire) might have led Athanasius to appear before and speak to Constantine so boldly, he was confident enough in success that it was worth both the trouble and the risks. Athanasius

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 201 gained his hoped-for hearing before the emperor. Considering his request ‘reasonable and appropriate for the times’ (ὄπερ ἐπειδὴ εὔλογον εἶναι μοι καὶ τοῖς καιροῖς πρέπον κατεφαίνετο), Constantine ordered the bishops to ‘come immediately’ (ἀν υπερθέτως) to court in order to prove that they had impartially rendered their decision concerning Athanasius.117 The emperor suspected this was not the case, based on what he heard from Athanasius, but promised that his judgement would be fair: I will attempt with all my might to set anything right in such a manner that those things especially may be preserved faultless and firmly established in the law of God, to which neither blame nor bad repute may be attached; while the enemies of His holy name … will be manifestly scattered abroad, and utterly shattered, and absolutely obliterated.118 Not all the bishops comprising the Council of Tyre who were then at Jerusalem journeyed to Constantinople. According to Athanasius, only these individuals made their case against him before the emperor: Eusebius of Nicomedia, Theognis of Nicaea, Patrophilus of Scythopolis, Eusebius of Caesarea, Ursacius of Singidunum, and Valens of Mursa.119 Five additional bishops who supported Athanasius were also present. His accusers dropped all mention of murder and sacrilege but gained the upper hand by convincing Constantine that Athanasius committed treason by preventing the grain supply from reaching Constantinople.120 Athanasius did not help his own case by losing his temper, apparently at the emperor’s reaction to this accusation, and warned Constantine that God would judge between them.121 Whatever the words exchanged between the emperor and Athanasius at this point, Constantine’s resulting decision was more restrained than might have been expected (or, perhaps, desired by the other bishops). Athanasius was banished to Trier, although the emperor did not demand his removal as bishop of Alexandria despite his deposition by the Council of Tyre. Socrates and Sozomen each speculated in the fifth century that exiling Athanasius without enforcing Tyre’s decision (or recommending that he be deposed by a subsequent council) could have been a gesture of unity and compromise to each side by Constantine.122 Athanasius remained at Trier under Constantine II (r. 317–340), who ruled as Caesar for his father in Gaul, until June 337 when he successfully campaigned for his return to Alexandria. A letter from Constantine II (dated 17 June 337), which endorsed Athanasius’ resuming episcopal duties over the Catholic church of Alexandria, suggested that the exile had been intended as a safety measure and would have ended much sooner if death had not prevented the late emperor from doing so.123 Thus, Constantine II managed to reverse his father’s policy while making it appear as though he were actually executing the unfinished plans of a predecessor.

‘Sufficient orthodoxy’: Constantine’s adherence to the Council of Nicaea as ecclesiastical law So far, this chapter has described how Constantine employed his doctrine of resistance and compromise during his last decade or so as he intervened more

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directly in ecclesiastical conflicts by relying on the compelling power of his physical presence. The emperor’s continued promises to make official visits and using the authority of an imperial summons were two specific methods of how the potential or actuality of being personally present enabled him to steer Christians, whose continued divisions he viewed as resistance to the divine will as expressed by his own, towards unity through compromise. Both measures were intended to reward compliance, threaten or execute penalties for resistance, and judge directly in disputes as he determined the circumstances required. During these last years of Constantine’s reign between 325 and 337, surviving evidence from this emperor's correspondence shows that he relied more on his own judgement and less on the conciliar model that had culminated in his presence and participation at the Council of Nicaea in order to handle disputes that were essentially judicial in nature. But according to what law could Constantine claim to judge justly in such cases concerning Christians when he remained committed to respecting the collective decisions of bishops affecting the churches’ theological beliefs and institutional procedures? By what standards could he determine reward or punishment when some Christians disputed the integrity and justice of their own processes for managing conflict among themselves? I contend in this section that Constantine favoured a flexible interpretation of Nicaea—which placed a greater weight on inclusiveness and fellowship than theological precision—as a basis for deciding the judicial cases between 325 and 337.124 I am not suggesting by the term ‘ecclesiastical law’ in reference to Nicaea that the Council itself had legal standing or that its decisions expressed in the creed and canons were integrated into Roman law. But by claiming consistently that he affirmed Nicaea’s authority for determining right belief and practice, the emperor who promoted Christianity used this Council to maintain the credibility of his claim to rule by the favour of the supreme God whom Christians worshipped. At the same time, he interpreted Nicaea’s definition of ‘right belief’ broadly to include as many people as possible. The emperor’s minimum criterion for this was that language about God ought to be avoided which might suggest material division within the Godhead or imply the Son’s inferiority and subordination to the Father. Between 325 and 337, Constantine and the bishops could agree that orthodoxy was necessary for Christian communion. However, some (such as Athanasius) began pressing for further theological precision, whereas the emperor’s priority was ecclesiastical unity. It is not necessary to think that Constantine must have therefore played fast and loose with the Council’s theological ruling for the sake of political expediency. We should remember that Nicene ‘orthodoxy’ was not as precisely defined during this first decade after the Council as it came to be later in the fourth century and beyond. Rather than asking ‘either-or’ questions about Constantine’s orthodoxy (or lack thereof), we should be looking into what kind of ‘Nicene Christianity’ he relied on as an authoritative foundation for dealing with the complicated judicial matters brought to him during these later years. This is consciously similar to what Drake proposes: for this scholar, the right question is ‘What kind of Christian did Constantine become?’ rather than ‘Did Constantine become a Christian?’ Likewise, I believe the right question when

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 203 approaching the emperor’s apparent flip-flops favouring one ‘side’ or another is to ask what kind of Nicene Christian he became instead of whether or not his religious beliefs were necessarily orthodox.125 I also follow Drake’s judgement that the ostensive inconsistencies in Constantine’s decision-making pattern regarding Christians after Nicaea are better evaluated from a perspective other than ‘theological signposts’; in other words, which side of the theological argument he appeared to support as the result of a judgement affecting (for instance) Arius, Eusebius of Nicomedia, or Athanasius.126 While Drake’s move in this regard is towards political analysis, this section continues the present chapter’s judicial perspective partially in response to this scholar’s neglect of theological issues resulting in an over-emphasis on politics. For example, he writes: The reason for Constantine’s support of the Nicene formula was not so much theology as a commitment to unity and consensus. … Each time he acted for or against Eusebius, Athanasius, or Arius, he was acting for a church that would be inclusive and flexible. He preferred, in other words, pragmatists over ideologues.127 I do not believe that Drake is necessarily mistaken in his assessment, although I seek to provide a more balanced treatment of law, politics, and theology as these were interwoven with one another during this later stage of Constantine’s engagement with ecclesiastical conflicts. Like any other aspect of imperial power, a Roman emperor’s role in legal affairs involved tension between precedent and innovation.128 Emperors usually relied on established law in making their judgements, whether hearing a case as it first appeared in court or on appeal. Decisions made by a given emperor’s predecessors were treated as authentic interpretations of the law and were considered to be authoritative in subsequent cases. But, as Herbert Jolowicz observed, ‘as the highest authority in the state, [the emperor] naturally allow[ed] himself considerable freedom of interpretation, and sometimes [went] so far as to introduce definitely new principles’.129 Constantine embraced this blend of prior example and novelty when ecclesiastical conflicts came to his attention and reserved to himself the power of interpreting the law as strictly or freely as he determined each case required. Once he became occupied with such matters involving Christians, as when the various accusations were officially levelled against Athanasius, Constantine relied on ecclesiastical custom as a kind of ‘law’ in order to ensure that what he determined was ‘just’ would prevail.130 According to Caroline Humfress, Constantine ‘created the possibility of an “independent” body of conciliar decisions, which would merge with various other strands of ecclesiastical law to form the canon law proper of the medieval period’.131 I lean towards her view rather than that which Walter Ullman stated earlier. For Ullman, ecclesiastical custom was within the scope of public law, and it was in the public interest that measures were taken to liberate the Christians to regulate matters relating to them. The public law enabled Constantine to

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Without over-emphasising its ‘independence’, I believe the evidence points towards a relative autonomy for ecclesiastical decision-making authority that Constantine allowed and sometimes insisted upon.133 It is, therefore, preferable to place ecclesiastical custom alongside, instead of within, public law. ‘Ecclesiastical law’, as I use the term here, should not be understood as synonymous with ‘canon law’; rather, it is better viewed from Constantine’s perspective as a category set alongside civil law (ius civile) or law governing ‘the nations’ (ius gentium). He first referred to ecclesiastical custom when he summoned the hearing in Rome presided over by Miltiades.134 Here, the emperor wrote the bishops who were to assemble for that they should act ‘so far as [they] may perceive to be fitting with the most sacred law’ (ὡς ἂν καταμάθοιτε τῷ σεβασμιωτάτῳ νόμῳ ἁρμόττειν), referring to their own customary procedures.135 Ecclesiastical custom, with Constantine’s involvement, became a more fully developed ‘law for the Christians’ (lex Christiana) at Nicaea in 325. The emperor proclaimed in two letters dating from June that year that all Christians should accept Nicaea’s decisions. Concerning Easter celebrations, he wrote: ‘For what is better for us, and what is more reverent, than that this festival from which we have taken hold of our hope of immortality should be kept by everyone according to one arrangement and clear principle?’136 Constantine also declared that Nicaea was universally authoritative in theological matters, writing also in 325 to the Christians of Alexandria: Let us therefore receive the verdict which the Almighty handed over [in the Council’s decision]; let us return to our beloved brothers as we were separated from them by a shameless servant of the devil. Let us earnestly come together as the common body with those who are our fellow members.137 It is worth noting the use of ἀκριβὴς in this letter, which indicates that (as of about mid-325) Constantine viewed the faith proclaimed at Nicaea as already articulated in precise and accurate terms—although, as demonstrated by subsequent events, the emperor’s definition of ‘precise and accurate’ differed from the bishops’.138 Constantine sought to establish such authority for Nicaea in three ways, each designed to impede potential resistance: by declaring the Council’s purpose accomplished, describing his role and participation in that success, and the claim that its proceedings were thorough.139 As emperor, Constantine’s presence and participation were essential for such universal authority. However, the emperor interpreted Nicaea’s theology in this letter to the Alexandrian Christians using generic terminology to describe a faith that practically anyone with a monotheistic outlook could claim to hold. He proclaimed that ‘we have been set free [from error] and acknowledge one and the same faith’ (ἵνα πάσης ἀπαλλαγέντες μίαν καὶ τὴν αὐτὴν ἐπιγινώσκωμεν πίστιν) without elaborating on any specific details of such a faith.140 This lack of theological discussion by

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 205 Constantine could be taken as reflecting traditional Roman religious views, which were pragmatic rather than speculative. It does not indicate the emperor’s lack of theological awareness or concern, as statements by Eusebius of Caesarea and nearly the whole of Constantine’s Oration to the Assembly of Saints show otherwise.141 He further asserted in this letter that ‘we all now worship the One God by name, and fully believe that he is’ (ἕνα τοιγαροῦν ἅπαντες θεὸν καὶ τῷ ὀνοματι προσκυνοῦμεν καὶ εἶναι πεπιστεύκαμεν) but neither provided this ‘name’ nor clearly identified the ‘one God’ with the specific deity described in Nicaea’s written creed.142 It might be assumed that Constantine meant ‘Jesus’ or ‘Christ’, but the fact that he did not specify this name is typically ambiguous for the emperor. His Christian audience could have read ‘Christ’ into it, but it is interesting that he did not make this explicit here while he had elsewhere in his correspondence. The emperor probably intended such vague language to neutralise dissent, knowing (despite having exaggerated the Council’s success) that others aside from Arius would be unable or unwilling to fall in line.143 Inserting ὁμοούσιον into Nicaea’s creed may have defined heresy, but its positive meaning was unclear even as the Council proceeded. Whereas some Christians after the Council began taking different positions along a spectrum of possible opinions in search of further theological precision, Constantine’s decisions reflect an interpretation that attempted to encompass as much of that range of views as possible.144 This does not necessarily mean the emperor was not genuinely committed to the Council’s definition. But any sincere attachment to Nicaea by Constantine should not be assumed to mean that his brand of ‘orthodoxy’ involved an exact interpretation. At this stage in the development of Trinitarian theology, precision might have been desirable but remained unattainable. Charles Odahl is, therefore, near the mark in asserting that Constantine ‘demanded both theological orthodoxy and brotherly harmony from the Christian clergy’.145 But it would add further clarity to understanding Constantine’s position to say that the emperor demanded only ‘sufficient orthodoxy’ for the sake of brotherly harmony among Christians. The emperor’s allegiance to Nicaea was more to do with its authority than its theology. To further clarify this point, we should explore his minimum criterion to determine what beliefs constituted ‘sufficient orthodoxy’ for Constantine and how this was used to legitimise his decisions affecting Eusebius of Nicomedia, Athanasius, and Arius. Although Eusebius of Caesarea retrospectively described theology as one of Constantine’s favoured topics when giving instructive speeches on religion, we have few surviving examples of this in the emperor’s own words.146 Prior to Nicaea, any instances that can be construed as theological pronouncements by Constantine merely involved various references to the ‘supreme God’ or the ‘Saviour’ and his own deeply felt obligation to manage divine favour.147 These were statements of religious principles related to his hold on power rather than attempts to describe his own interpretations of Christian belief and teaching. He also avoided weighing in with his own opinions concerning the disagreement between Alexander and Arius: rather than taking sides or contradicting them both, he sidestepped the substance of their dispute altogether as part of his initial attempt to mediate their

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reconciliation.148 Constantine engaged in no specific theorising or speculation in our surviving evidence up until the Council of Nicaea when Eusebius of Caesarea described the emperor’s participation in the debates and the introduction of ὁμο ούσιον.149 The earliest datable evidence in Constantine’s words that indicates the kind of belief statements he supported as sufficiently orthodox comes from his letter to the church at Nicomedia late in 325, five or six months after Nicaea’s conclusion.150 The letter began with a theological summary concerning the Father and the Son.151 As a public statement, it does not necessarily represent what Constantine privately believed—but that possibility cannot be altogether ruled out. What it does convey is the faith that he desired all Christians would be united in believing. As such, it is significant for ascertaining the emperor’s minimum theological criteria according to which he decided judicially whether or not to support an individual subject’s cause for restoration to ecclesiastical communion. While this would not be the place for an extensive theological analysis of the pronouncement with which this letter began, it is important to note the consistency between its emphasis on unity and distinctiveness in the Godhead and what Eusebius of Caesarea later claimed about what Constantine’s sentiments had been during the Council.152 At the time, according to Eusebius, Constantine praised the bishop of Caesarea’s publicly read statement of belief as ‘most orthodox’ (ὀρθότατα), with the only addition necessary being the word ὁμοούσιον.153 Eusebius recorded that Constantine’s interpretation of unity and distinction between Father and Son should not be understood in any material sense: [The emperor] was saying that the Son was not ‘of the same being as’ according to our bodies, as if the Son subsisted by a division or a cutting off from the Father; for his nature, which subsists in an intellectual and disembodied state, was not capable of any bodily experiences. Therefore, such things are to be thought in divine, ineffable principles.154 For Constantine, a distinction between the Son and the Father was not the same as material separation. The emperor did not support any theological language that so sharply distinguished the Father from the Son so as to deny the one-ness of God or that Christians rightly worshipped Christ as God. But he would not endorse the other extreme position so that there was no distinction at all. Constantine’s letter to the church of Nicomedia further shows the consistency of his words with the above paraphrase by Eusebius of Caesarea. Here, the emperor wrote ‘that the Son of God had gone forth … from an undivided essence of the Father’ (ἣ τὸν τοῦ θεοῦ υἱὸν … ἐξ ἀμερίστου τοῦ πατρὸς οὐσίας προεληλυθέναι).155 He also elaborated on his understanding of unity and distinction in the Godhead, which he expressed by describing Christ the Son as the Father’s will.156 The Son had always existed in the Father and ‘was accordingly begotten in an undivided origin’ (ἐγεννήθη τοίνυν ἀμερίστῳ προελεύσει) since the will cannot be separated from the one who wills.157 Constantine did not accuse Arius directly in his letter to the church of Nicomedia, but rather their recently deposed and exiled bishop (Eusebius) on

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 207 charges of collaborating in Licinius’ tyranny.158 The emperor also referred here to his view of Eusebius of Nicomedia’s theological faults as he explained his action of exiling the former bishop. According to Constantine, Arius was to blame for the heresy itself, but Eusebius had supported its spread through his ‘foul and destructive’ (ἀτόπου τε καὶ ὀλεθρίας) patronage.159 Furthermore, Eusebius had welcomed rather than shunned those (Arius and his remaining supporters) who had not accepted Nicaea’s definition or Constantine’s interpretation of it.160 This does not mean that the emperor’s more overtly political complaints in this letter were lesser factors in his decision to exile Eusebius. But it does indicate how Constantine began to employ his interpretation of Nicaea’s theology authoritatively: Eusebius’ decision to receive those whom the Council condemned put him on the wrong side of the Council’s authority as surely as the other crimes charged against him by the emperor placed him outside the law. Even so, four documents seem to place into question any level of commitment by Constantine to promoting Nicaea’s authority. In his letter of 27 November 327, as discussed above, Constantine summoned Arius to court for apparently the second time.161 This briefly written summons does not explain why Arius was ordered to appear originally, or why it was important enough for Constantine to write a second time to the same effect. However, some of the context for this letter is provided in three other documents, two of which are written to rather than from the emperor. These are the letter of Arius and Euzoius to Constantine, a subsequent letter from Eusebius of Nicomedia and Theognis of Nicaea, and the fragment of a letter from Constantine to Alexander of Alexandria concerning Arius.162 The first two documents are dated to late 327 (Urks. 30 and 31), close to the 27 November 327 date for the emperor’s second summons of Arius (Urk. 29). The third is dated early 328 just prior to Alexander’s death in April that year (Urk. 32). Constantine supported Arius’ rehabilitation, having accepted his written statement of belief, and ordered Alexander to receive him into communion.163 Somehow, Eusebius and Theognis learned of this positive shift in Arius’ position and likewise petitioned (also successfully) for their own return from exile. They were even allowed to resume to their episcopal positions in the same cities.164 By upholding Arius’ cause while allowing Eusebius and Theognis to regain their prior authority, it seemed that Constantine had disavowed the Council of Nicaea for the sake of ecclesiastical unity. However, these same documents also contain evidence (explicit as well as implied) that the emperor still claimed to favour the faith determined by the Council. These letters also indicate Christians understood that this continued to be his position despite the changes in his decision-making affecting individuals connected with different parties in the ongoing theological debates. The similarity of the language in the written statement submitted by Arius and Euzoius to wording in the Nicene Creed implies that these two men understood what Constantine generally expected to hear, even if their testimony lacked any reference to ὁμοού σιον.165 Eusebius and Theognis, in their subsequent petition, also claimed to agree in the faith with those capable of restoring them who met in 327 at a provincial synod.166 Regarding ὁμοούσιον, these two men maintained that they had never

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supported heresy and worked only for peace.167 They asserted their acceptance of Nicaea’s theological decision, but not its censure of Arius (whose views, they said, were represented unfairly).168 Constantine wrote, in his final surviving letter to Alexander (328), that Arius ‘promised that he thinks concerning our catholic faith as it has been laid down and proclaimed through us at the synod of Nicaea’.169 In the same document, Alexander was ordered to receive both Arius and Euzoius, conditional upon the bishop’s satisfaction that ‘they [were] now lay[ing] claim to the apostolic, orthodox faith, which was set forth at Nicaea and lives forever’.170 Thus, Constantine’s positive shift as of 327–328 towards those whom he had earlier condemned was not from his perspective a renunciation of Nicaea or an undermining of its authority. Instead, the emperor continued to uphold acceptance of the Council’s decision as his condition for any convicted heretic who wished to gain his endorsement for restoration to communion. He did not require language that referred explicitly to ὁμοούσιον or insist on being satisfied that one held a precise theological interpretation of the term. Rather, he demanded that such persons formally declare their acceptance of Nicaea only insofar as they professed belief in one God, whose unity involved a genuine but non-material distinction of the Father and the Son. Thus, as of 327–328, Constantine now supported the bids for return from exile and restored ecclesiastical standing of those whose condemnation as heretics he had earlier enforced even while he continued affirming the Council’s authority. A broad interpretation of Nicaea’s theological decision enabled him to do so while applying that understanding as ‘ecclesiastical law’, or an authoritative basis for decision-making, in the cases brought before him involving Christians. The same continued to be true as of 333, by which time Constantine had changed his position towards both Arius and Athanasius while at the same time maintaining Nicaea’s authority.171 Athanasius’ refusal to re-admit Arius into communion around 330–331, as we have seen, earned Constantine’s strong disapproval. Yet by early 332, the emperor heartily endorsed Athanasius as the rightful bishop of Alexandria after acquitting him of criminal charges and alleged infractions of propriety in worship. Arius’ formerly favourable position with Constantine changed for the worse by 333 when the emperor wrote his long and acrimonious letter against him. This letter to Arius also continued to demonstrate Constantine’s adherence to Nicaea as of the same year. He maintained his avoidance of language that denoted either material division in the unity of God or the Son’s subordination to the Father, which were both key theological implications of the Nicene Creed even without precise explanation. For example, the emperor wrote the following against Arius in this document: Do you speak of one God? You have the same opinion as mine; think so. Do you think the Word of his essence was sent forth without beginning and without an end? I am content with this. Believe so. If you attach anything further, this I abrogate. If you join anything to a sacrilegious separation, I admit I have neither seen nor perceive this. If you receive the body’s guest-chamber in respect of the regulation of divine activities, I do not reject it as unworthy.

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 209 If you say the Spirit of eternity has been born in the Word that prevails, I accept it. Who has known the Father, if not the one who has come from the Father? Whom has the Father known if not he whom he has begotten from himself eternally and without beginning? Indeed you suppose that you ought to assign a foreign hypostasis, thus believing badly. I know that the fullness of the overriding and all-pervading power of the Father and the Son is one substance.172 Here, Constantine appeared to address the earlier written statement, given by Arius and Euzoius, which declared their fidelity to Nicaea’s theology while unintentionally leaving room for an able opponent like Athanasius to suggest their duplicity to the emperor. Athanasius would have had an opportunity to do so when he was at court in 332, and Constantine (who, as noted, acquitted the bishop of the charges against him and supported his return to the episcopal chair of Alexandria) could have been willing to listen. The emperor effectively warned Arius that the words with which the latter earlier claimed views acceptable as orthodox now needed to correspond with whatever was truly in his mind. Constantine ended the letter by summoning Arius to appear before him for judgement when the emperor would determine the truth of this for himself: Come to me, come, I say, to a man of God. Believe how by my inquiries I will track down the secrets of your heart; and if indeed there is any mad notion planted in you, I, having invoked divine grace, will heal you more beautiful than a model. But if it comes to light that you are healthy according to the spirit, I, recognising the light of truth in you, will give thanks to God and rejoice together with myself for the sake of piety.173 Through such statements, we can see how Constantine remained consistent with his own interpretation of Nicene theology eight years after the Council. He still rejected any material division or absolute subordination in the Godhead. He refused to accept an extreme position that the Council had determined unacceptable; his own interpretation was within acceptable limits according to the standards of Nicaea’s language. Such theological boundaries set by the Council’s acceptance and proclamation of ὁμοούσιον were broader than might be expected. Lewis Ayres noted that ‘the promulgation of homoousios involved a conscious lack of positive definition of the term’ and correctly observed that Constantine’s interpretation ‘insist[ed] on the importance of understanding [ὁμοούσιον] without material connotation’ while leaving the rest ‘vaguely undefined’.174 It is true that in the so-called ‘Arian’ passages of Constantine’s Oration to the Assembly of the Saints, there are examples of language suggesting the emperor’s subordinationism.175 If this speech is properly dated at any point prior to the Council of Nicaea, then Constantine’s words here cannot be held to a Nicene standard of orthodoxy (which would be difficult to precisely determine in any meaningful sense at least until well after the year 350).176 According to Richard Hanson,

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Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) there is no theologian in the Eastern or the Western church before the outbreak of the Arian controversy, who does not in some sense regard the Son as subordinate to the Father. … But this subordination is still a subordination within a graded Godhead so that the distinct Persons share the same nature.177

Even if a date after Nicaea is assigned to the Oration, it was this sharing of the same divine nature that had been determined by the Council. In any case, the specific language of ὁμοούσιον had yet to be clarified during any point in Constantine’s reign after 325. The emperor next displayed conformity with prior ecclesiastical custom (although not necessarily Nicaea’s decisions) in his letter that was read before the Council of Tyre in 335.178 The letter contained language that is both restorative and judicial in commanding the bishops ‘to come to the aid of those in need of help, to entirely heal brothers who are at risk, to bring concord to members who have separated limb from limb, and to correct that which [was] wrong’.179 At issue were the older charges against Athanasius regarding the broken chalice and the supposed murder of Arsenius, which (in the emperor’s view) were not theological matters; however, the bishop of Alexandria’s theological opponents were also involved at this time in their support for Arius’ restoration.180 However, Constantine’s letter did not refer to any specific problems that the council was to address in its deliberations: thus, he did not attempt to set this council’s agenda or indicate any particular decision that it ought to reach. The general trouble requiring the meeting of a council at this time, according to the emperor, was disunity while it was that body’s function to settle any particular issues at the root of such discord.181 Even so, the council was not to reach its decision too quickly at the expense of doing so ‘in conformity with the ecclesiastical and apostolic canon’ (ἀκολούθως δὲ τῷ ἐκκλησιαστικῷ καὶ ἀποστολικῷ κανόνι).182 Here, Constantine equated ecclesiastical custom with law and justice when he added immediately: To conceive the appropriate cure for the offenses committed or fault if it is found to have occurred, in order that you will free the church from all slander, relieve my anxieties, and render the greatest glory to yourselves by restoring the favour of peace to those now in rebellion.183 Here, the medical imagery of ‘cure’ (θεραπείαν) had less to do with ‘service’ so much as setting right that which had gone wrong, due to the actions of whoever the council ultimately determined at fault. The doctrines of divine favour and ecclesiastical unity lay behind Constantine’s opening statement in this letter, which expressed the basis for his action in summoning this particular council. He regarded the ‘unhealthy rivalry’ (ὑγιοῦς φιλονεικίας) of Christians as ‘an extreme misfortune’ (πάσης συμφορᾶς ἐπέκεινα) but expressed the confident hope that his purpose in convening this latest council to restore ecclesiastical unity (the goal towards which he said he had always worked) was pleasing to God.184 Disharmony among Christians was disastrous to Constantine because, as a disruption of fellowship

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 211 among worshippers of the one supreme God, he believed it threatened the loss of divine favour resulting in the end of peace and security under his reign. The emperor, as God’s agent and conduit for divine blessing, once more assumed the duty of gathering an assembly of bishops by imperial command so that they might resolve the particular concerns that interfered with communion.185 He urged the bishops to carry out their deliberations quickly, properly, and zealously in sincerity and probity, and to be of one mind in reaching their collective decision.186 Constantine’s use of the exact term for ‘one mind’ (ὁμογνώμονι) had appeared in his letter to the churches (325) related to a matter of institutional order and procedure—Nicaea’s determination regarding the universal calculation for celebrating Easter.187 But he had also used very similar terminology (ἕνα καὶ τὸν αὐτὸν ἔχετε λογισμόν, or ‘you have one and the same mind’) when writing to Alexander and Arius prior to that Council (late 324) in which he intervened as a mediator in their theological dispute. It is, therefore, difficult to determine, based on explicit language in this letter opening the Council of Tyre, whether Constantine desired an ecclesiastical unity characterised by uniformity or a looser, more general concord. If the emperor were aware of a real alliance of those who opposed Athanasius on theological and procedural grounds, he may have left it open for the bishops at Tyre themselves to determine what particular type of unity would be most appropriate—so long as there was unity. Yet, nowhere in this document does he refer either to Athanasius or any of those who opposed him along with any of their reasons for doing so. Perhaps, then, Constantine was less concerned by this point about what kind of unity resulted from the Council of Tyre so long as an agreement was reached that resolved problems among the Christians in Alexandria. What he clearly communicated about unity was his expectation that the churches ‘should not be torn by factions’ (ἀστασίαστον εἶναι), that Christians ought to ‘be rid of all reproach’ (πάσης λοιδορίας … ἀπηλλάχθαι), and that ‘concord’ and ‘harmony’ (ὁμόνοιαν … συμφωνίαν) ought to be restored. These verbal indicators confirm that Constantine hoped for a general consensus rather than a more rigid uniformity as a result of the Council of Tyre’s proceedings. However, a subsequent letter by Constantine shows that the council did not satisfy the emperor as to the order and fairness of its activities despite the oversight of the comes Flavius Dionysius (a high-ranking member of the imperial court).188 The emperor’s suspicions were already implied in the letter read in the bishops’ hearing as the council began. His repeated urging for the bishops to meet together ‘in a manifest manner of purity and faith … neither moving toward hatred nor favour’ (μετὰ πάσης εἰλικρινείας δηλαδή καὶ πίστεως … μήτε πρὸς ἀπέχθειαν μήτε πρὸς χάριν) implicitly warned them to avoid any partisan duplicity.189 Constantine trusted established ecclesiastical custom and relied on the conciliar system (although to a lesser extent than before) to determine the course of justice at the council, but he did not entirely trust the bishops themselves by this time. Indeed, the opening of his letter to the bishops at Tyre (6 November 335) described in ominous terms his awareness of the very kind of factionalism he had earlier urged them to avoid:

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Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) Indeed, I do not know what it is under which your council has been separated in the midst of tumult and storm; but it is believed somehow the truth has been distorted by means of troubling disorder in that you, clearly satisfied only with the robbery you wish to remain unconquered, are not able to comprehend what pleases God.190

These misgivings about the Council of Tyre resulted from Constantine’s encounter with Athanasius, which the emperor described in this letter. Although he did not report here the specific complaints then brought before him, Athanasius later wrote that he had objected to the council tasked with deciding his case as being composed by ‘Eusebius [of Nicomedia] and his fellows’ along with some Meletians, including Dionysius as one of these latter.191 He also complained that Macarius, one of his supporters who was earlier acquitted of having broken a sacred chalice, was arrested and placed under a military guard rather than be allowed to assist Athanasius at Tyre.192 To the extent that such protests were based on truth, it would have been difficult for Athanasius to obtain a fair trial. Constantine wrote that he had heard Athanasius’ grievances against the bishops at Tyre and resolved to personally hear both sides of the case in Constantinople.193 In this brief opening statement in Constantine’s second letter to the bishops at Tyre, the doctrines of divine favour and ecclesiastical unity were expressed negatively. One assumption underlying the emperor’s statement was that true bishops were capable of pleasing God, thus ensuring the continuity of divine favour on the emperor and the Roman Empire. Constantine’s words opening this letter also indicate his further assumption that the unity of Christians, or a council of bishops in this case, and their commitment to established practices and procedures were essential factors in maintaining God’s beneficial patronage. These were expressed by the emperor here in terms of his apprehension that none of this was the case at Tyre. The emperor claimed here not to know for certain but suspected that the Council of Tyre had not thus far acted according to the terms of equity and fidelity to ecclesiastical custom to which he had directed them in his previous communication. Commissioned to restore ecclesiastical unity according to their established procedures and rules, the bishops at Tyre were ostensibly pursuing the opposite course. Therefore, if this were so, according to Constantine, then it was clear to him that these bishops could not please God. The implication was that the ‘servant of God’ needed to judge the case personally in order to preserve his and the empire’s standing before God—the continuity of which may have been jeopardised by whoever was ultimately deemed culpable for disrupting the Council of Tyre. The last time in historical evidence that Constantine is shown as continuing to hold the same inclusive interpretation of Nicaea as law that he first expressed in 325 appears just over a decade later during the summer of 336 (approximately one year before his death). This evidence comes not from any imperial letter but is found as a brief second-hand quotation by Athanasius after the deaths of both Constantine and Arius in a letter written to settle questions as to whether or not the latter died in communion with the church. The narrative context for this statement

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 213 picks up when the emperor ordered the bishops assembled at Tyre to relocate temporarily to Jerusalem in order to attend the dedication of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre between 13 and 20 September 335.194 Arius was received into communion by these bishops in Jerusalem; they sent a letter to the church of Alexandria (addressing it also to bishops and clergy in churches throughout Egypt and Libya) notifying them that Arius had been re-admitted.195 According to this letter, Arius’ restoration was prompted by the emperor who heard his confession and deemed it satisfactorily orthodox. This action by Constantine is to be identified with his earlier commands addressed first to Alexander (early 328) and then to Athanasius (c. 330–331). Both directives went unheeded, as we have seen, and so Arius’ ecclesiastical standing remained uncertain until these bishops finally acted in favour of Constantine’s prior endorsements. In the meantime, Athanasius fled from Tyre and arrived in Constantinople by 30 October 335, making his sudden appearance before the emperor near the city on 6 November. Constantine, perhaps initially receptive to Athanasius, banished him to Trier after both men seem to have lost their tempers when the charge of disrupting the corn supply was levelled by representatives of the Council of Tyre/Jerusalem. Sometime shortly afterwards, Arius reached Alexandria at last. However, a disturbance was excited there apparently over his return and Athanasius’ exile. Constantine summoned Arius to the court at Constantinople in 336, and further commotions were stirred up in that city upon his arrival when he faced immediate opposition. This resistance centred around Alexander, bishop of Constantinople, who favoured a strict reading of Nicene theology that would not allow Arius to be rehabilitated. The emperor questioned Arius to determine whether he truly accepted Nicaea’s decisions. Constantine was said to be surprised at the ready speed with which Arius replied in the affirmative and ordered him to swear to it. Arius duly testified by both signature and oath that he accepted the Council of Nicaea. According to Athanasius, writing to his friend Serapion (bishop of Thmuis) sometime around 339–346 claimed to have heard second-hand that the emperor at this point dismissed Arius, saying: ‘If your faith be right, you have done well to swear; but if your faith be impious, and you have sworn, God judge of you according to your oath’.196 Thus, Constantine judged Arius to be sufficiently orthodox and recommended that his return to communion be ratified by Alexander of Constantinople.197 The emperor had supported Arius’ earlier bids for restored Catholic fellowship, but Alexander of Alexandria and Athanasius had each refused to admit him on the grounds of their conviction that no one condemned of heresy could be reinstated. Alexander of Constantinople shared their firm view, refusing to communicate with Arius despite pressure to do so by both Constantine and the bishops who supported rehabilitation. Alexander was later said to have responded to such constraint by locking himself in his church to fast and pray that God would determine the issue, either by allowing the bishop to die if Arius were restored or cause Arius himself to die and therefore preserve His true church from heresy’s taint. The following day, a Sunday on which Arius was to be brought into the church at Constantinople for re-admission, he was apparently struck with the urgent need to defecate and entered a public latrine. Shortly after he failed to re-appear, Arius was found dead

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inside.198 The traditional accounts of Arius’ final and unsuccessful attempt to gain the long-awaited readmittance into Catholic fellowship contain rather convenient coincidences. First, Constantine (whose reputed words were given second-hand several years later by Athanasius) and then Alexander of Constantinople were both depicted using similar language when each declared separately that they would leave it up to God to judge the truth of Arius’ case. Second, the manner in which Arius was said to have died strongly resembled the death of Judas Iscariot as described in Acts: the comparison was explicitly made by Athanasius in his letter to Serapion (later echoed by Theodoret in his Ecclesiastical History) with the polemical purpose of portraying Arius as a betrayer of Christ because of his heresy.199 Third, the suddenness with which Arius seems to have died on his way to be restored to communion was emphasised in each account in order to underline its extraordinary nature and God’s direct intervention. Whatever the true details of Arius’ death may be, subsequent reports served well the cause of his opponents such as Alexander of Constantinople and Athanasius of Alexandria. The emperor was said to be quite impressed when he heard how Arius died and concluded that it was divine punishment for perjury as well as heresy.200 Thus, Constantine affirmed the divine authority of the Council of Nicaea as late as the year 336, having done so consistently since 325 despite appearing to favour one side and then another in his judgements affecting Arius, Athanasius, and Eusebius of Nicomedia. Such decisions were not intended from the emperor’s perspective as signalling his support for the opinions of whichever ecclesiastical faction happened to persuade him successfully at any given time—regardless of how the leaders of any such group might have understood or chosen to use a particular verdict to serve their own interests. Rather, Constantine relied during these final years of his reign on a broad and inclusive interpretation of Nicaea’s theological resolution as a type of ecclesiastical law when deciding individual cases involving Christians in conflict. Specifically, the emperor held to a view of Nicene consubstantiality that emphasised distinction and unity in the Godhead while avoiding any notion of material separation between the divine persons of the Father and the Son. He also generally rejected ideas that the Son was absolutely inferior and subordinate to the Father. His words that seem to indicate otherwise in relatively few passages from his letters or the Oration should be evaluated in light of various existing responses to ὁμοούσιον as Nicene theology began to develop during this time. Constantine’s reliance on this understanding of Nicaea’s theology and upholding it as possessing universal authority helped guide his dispensation of justice as a legal basis for judging cases involving Christians contending against one another. Such cases, as we have seen, included charges of sacrilege or criminal violence brought by some Christians against others, petitions to return from exile, and requests for support in gaining re-admission into ecclesiastical communion. Constantine’s purpose was to see that decisions in each of these cases were rendered—whether by himself directly, through an imperial representative, or determined by episcopal leadership—so as to bring an end to ecclesiastical conflict according to the churches’ established beliefs, customs, and procedures.

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 215 By these means, Constantine continued to speak and act consistently according to the doctrine of divine favour and agency as well as the doctrine of ecclesiastical unity. He claimed and affirmed the Council of Nicaea’s universal authority for Christians in determining with ecclesiastical leadership what constituted correct belief and right practice throughout the remaining years of his reign. Pursuing such propriety in religion concerning accurate opinions about the divine and appropriate practices in sacred matters allowed the emperor to continue publicly linking the legitimacy and success of his rule with Christianity in terms of the benefits of peace, security, and prosperity granted by the supreme God whom Christians worshipped. At the same time, Constantine’s interpretation of Nicaea’s theology was meant to include as many people as possible. His main concern for ecclesiastical unity after Nicaea, according to evidence in his surviving correspondence, was that Christians recognise the Council’s authority and resolve their disputes according to its determinations in terms of belief and practice. He supported those who could demonstrate sufficiently that they accepted his minimal criteria for what Nicaea established in its creed and canons without insisting on the same kind of precision sought by those who therefore came into conflict with one another.

Conclusion Analysis of Constantine’s remaining correspondence on ecclesiastical unity after the Council of Nicaea reveals that the three doctrines of power described in this thesis continued guiding the emperor’s involvement with ecclesiastical conflicts to the end of his reign. He remained occupied with internal church affairs in the same manner partly because of his unceasing commitment to ecclesiastical unity by means of which he expected to maintain divine favour. It was also due to the reality that disputing parties in these matters kept seeking the decisive power of the emperor’s judgement on their behalf. When Constantine’s role is analysed from the perspective of fourth-century Roman law and justice, the consistency in his decision-making in favouring various parties at different times during these final years becomes clearer without reading into documents Constantine’s private beliefs or emotional states. Such a vantage point also helps to avoid oversimplifying the complex, intertwined imperial and ecclesiastical politics during this period. The two main avenues by which Constantine projected imperial power in these affairs through exercising his duty to dispense justice were to rely on the compelling power of his presence while adhering to a looser interpretation of Nicaea’s theological definition as ecclesiastical law. The emperor continued to promise imperial visitations and utilised the authority of an imperial summons to reward consent, threaten punishment for non-compliance, and directly adjudicate as he deemed appropriate to the circumstances. The Council of Nicaea’s decisions served Constantine as ecclesiastical law, according to which he could claim to judge justly between disputing Christians while maintaining his respect for the authority of collective episcopal determinations. The theological flexibility he demonstrated did not indicate a shifting commitment between two well-defined

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alternative definitions of right belief; rather, the emperor’s interpretation remained within a limited range of possibilities that were still being debated during this time. It did so by avoiding language suggesting material separation between the Father and the Son as well as eschewing an absolute subordination of the Son to the Father beyond what would have been deemed theologically plausible at any earlier point.

Notes 1 Harold Drake, Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University, 2000), 272. I follow Drake in referring here to Constantine’s religious intentions concerning unity in general, although my focus is narrowed to consider only the emperor’s aims regarding ecclesiastical unity. 2 A.H.M. Jones, Constantine and the Conversion of Europe (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1948), 189–203 at 184, 191, and 198. Gwatkin earlier reached a similar conclusion that Constantine’s ‘vacillation is natural if his policy was to seek for unity by letting the bishops guide him’. See H.M. Gwatkin, The Arian Controversy (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1908), 60. 3 Alistair Kee, Constantine versus Christ: The Triumph of Ideology (London: SCM Press, 1982), 102, 113–114. 4 Timothy Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981), 242; cf. Timothy Barnes, Constantine: Dynasty, Religion, and Power in the Later Roman Empire (Malden: Blackwell, 2014), 131–140. 5 Drake, Constantine and the Bishops, 250. See also Harold Drake, ‘Nicaea to Tyre (325–335): The Bumpy Road to a Christian Empire’, L’ Antiquité Tardive 22 (2014), 43–52, where the same assumptions apply. 6 See Charles Odahl, Constantine and the Christian Empire (2nd edn.; London: Routledge, 2013), 260. 7 On Roman public law, see A.J.B. Sirks, ‘Public Law’ in The Cambridge Companion to Roman Law (David Johnston, ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 332–352; Andrew Riggsby, ‘Public and Private Criminal Law’ in The Oxford Handbook of Roman Law and Society (Paul J. Du Plessis, Clifford Ando, and Kaius Tuori, eds.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 310–321. 8 Kaius Tuori, The Emperor of Law: The Emergence of Roman Imperial Adjudication (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 202. 9 For example, in addition to others cited in this chapter, see Franz Wieacker, ‘The Importance of Roman Law for Western Civilization and Western Legal Thought’, Boston College International and Comparative Law Review 4:2 (September 1981), 257–281; Tony Honoré, Emperors and Lawyers (2nd rev. edn.; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994); Judith Evans Grubbs, Law and Family in Late Antiquity: The Emperor Constantine’s Marriage Legislation (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995); O.F. Robinson, The Sources of Roman Law: Problems and Methods for Ancient Historians (London: Routledge, 1997); H.F. Jolowicz and Barry Nicholas, Historical Introduction to the Study of Roman Law (3rd edn.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008); Andrew M. Riggsby, Roman Law and the Legal World of the Romans (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010); John Noël Dillon, The Justice of Constantine: Law, Communication, and Control (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2012). 10 Brad Inwood and Fred D. Miller, Jr., ‘Law in Roman Philosophy’ in A Treatise of Legal History and General Jurisprudence, Vol. 6: History of the Philosophy of Law from the Ancient Greeks to the Scholastics (2nd edn.; Fred D. Miller, Jr. and CarrieAnn Biondi, eds.; New York: Springer, 2015), 133–165 at 139.

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 217 11 Jill Harries notes ‘the act of codification [of Roman law under various emperors] … was an assertion of central control’. See Jill Harries, ‘Constantine the Lawgiver’ in From the Tetrarchs to the Theodosians: Late Roman History and Culture, 284-450 C.E. (Scott McGill, Cristiana Sogno, and Edward Watts, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 73–92 at 76. On dispensing justice as a use of power and duty laid upon emperors by their subjects’ expectations, see Fergus Millar, The Emperor in the Roman World: 31 B.C.-A.D. 337 (London: Duckworth, 1977), 465–467, 477, 516–549. For limitations on the process of obtaining justice, see A.H.M. Jones, The Later Roman Empire, 284-602: A Social, Economic and Administrative Survey, Vol. 1 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1973), 470. 12 Riggsby, Roman Law, 1–2. See also Larry May, Ancient Legal Thought: Equity, Justice, and Humaneness from Hammurabi and the Pharaohs to Justinian and the Talmud (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019; George Mousourakis, The Historical and Institutional Context of Roman Law (London: Routledge, 2016 [2003]). 13 See Pl. Respub. 1:331d–332c; 4:433a–434d, 443d–444a. Translation by G.M.A. Grube, and revised by C.D.C. Reeve in Plato: Complete Works (John M. Cooper and D.S. Hutchinson, eds.; Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Co., 1997), 971–1223 at 976, 1064. 14 Cic., Leg. 1.15.42, 2.4.8; Nat. D. 1.14.36, 2.21.79; Off. 3.5.21–23; Justinian, Dig. 1.1.10 (Ulpian, Rules 1), 1.3.2 (Marcian, Institutes 1), 1.3.7 (Modestinus, Rules 1). For Greek influence on Roman law, see Eric Brown, ‘The Emergence of Natural Law and the Cosmopolis’ in The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Greek Political Thought (Stephen Salkever, ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 331– 363; Laurens Winkel, ‘Roman Law and Its Intellectual Context’ in The Cambridge Companion to Roman Law (David Johnston, ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 9–22 at 12–14. 15 Cic., Nat. D. 3.15.38. 16 For Latin and English text, see Remains of Old Latin, Vol. 3: Lucilius, The Twelve Tables (LCL; E.H. Warmington, trans.; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1938), 424–515. 17 For the Code of Hammurabi, see Pamela Barmash, The Laws of Hammurabi at the Confluence of Royal and Scribal Traditions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020), 75–76, 273. Dates for the five biblical books of Moses are hotly debated, and I merely give a rough range of dates here, for examples of which, see On Dating Biblical Texts to the Persian Period: Discerning Criteria and Establishing Epochs (Richard J. Bautch and Mark Lackowski, eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2019); David M. Carr, The Formation of the Hebrew Bible: A New Reconstruction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 153–354; Richard Elliott Friedman, Who Wrote the Bible? (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2019), 19–34. 18 John A. Crook, ‘Augustus: Power, Authority, and Achievement’ in The Cambridge Ancient History, Vol. 10: The Augustan Empire, 43 B.C.-A.D. 69 (2nd edn.; Alan K. Bowman, Edward Champlin, and Andrew Lintott, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 113–146 at 113. 19 Augustus, Res Gestae 34. 20 Fronto, Ad M. Antoninum de eloquentia 1.5. 21 Gai., Inst. 1.5. Translation by F. de Zulueta as reproduced in Roman Civilization, Selected Readings Vol. 2: The Empire (3rd edn.; Naphtali Lewis and Meyer Reinhold, eds.; New York: Columbia University Press, 1990), 499–500. 22 Carlos F. Noreña, Imperial Ideals in the Roman West: Representation, Circulation, Power (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 7, 54–56. On imperial virtues, see Melissa Barden Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty in the Roman World (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2009). 23 Cass. Dio 53.17–18.1.

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24 Simon Corcoran, The Empire of the Tetrarchs: Imperial Pronouncements and Government, A.D. 284-324 (Rev. edn.; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000), 3; Tuori, Emperor of Law, 1–20, esp. 12–16. 25 Jill Harries, ‘Constantine the Lawgiver’ in From the Tetrarchs to the Theodosians: Late Roman History and Culture, 284-450 C.E. (Scott McGill, Cristiana Sogno, and Edward Watts, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 74. 26 Cod. Theod. 1.27.1, 16.2.1.-7. See also Constit. Sirm. 1. 27 Cod. Theod. 16.5.1, dated 1 September 326. 28 Cod. Theod. 16.5.2, dated 25 September 326. 29 For Canon 8 of the Council of Nicaea, see L’Huillier, Church of the Ancient Councils, 56–62. See August., Ep. 88.3 for Constantine’s order confiscating Donatist property. 30 Christopher Kelly, ‘Bureaucracy and Government’ and Caroline Humfress, ‘Civil Law and Social Life’ in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Constantine (Noel Lenski, ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 183–204 and 205–221, respectively; Dillon, Justice of Constantine, 251–258. For exemplum, see Clifford Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 378. 31 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.30.18–19. See p. 5 in this volume. 32 On Roman law relative to judicial decision-making throughout the empire, see Riggsby, Roman Law, 221–223. 33 Euseb., Hist. eccl. 7.30.19. 34 For examples of Christian property issues determined by Constantine, see Euseb. Hist. eccl. 10.5.15–17; Opt., App. 10; Cod. Theod. 16.5.2; Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.35– 41, 3.30.4–32.2, 3.52–53, 3.65.1–3. 35 Humfress, ‘Civil Law and Social Life’ in Cambridge Companion to Constantine (Lenski, ed.), 206. 36 Greg Woolf, Rome: An Empire’s Story (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 178; Ando, Imperial Ideology, 232–245; James A. Francis, ‘Visual and Verbal Representation: Image, Text, Person, and Power’ in A Companion to Late Antiquity (Philip Rousseau and Jutta Raithel, eds.; Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 285–305; Inge Mennen, Power and Status in the Roman Empire, A.D. 193-284 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 10–12. 37 Woolf, Rome, 246; Christopher Kelly, Ruling the Later Roman Empire (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2006), 192–193. 38 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.10.1–4. Translation by Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall in Eusebius: Life of Constantine (Cameron and Hall, trans. and eds.), 125. 39 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.10.4. 40 Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.10.5. 41 This point is partially informed by Christian Rollinger’s focus on how imperial displays of ceremony and splendour served to determine the rank of courtiers. See Christian Rollinger, ‘The Importance of Being Splendid: Competition, Ceremonial, and the Semiotics of Status at the Court of the Late Roman Emperors (4th-6th Centuries)’ in Gaining and Losing Imperial Favour in Late Antiquity: Representation and Reality (Kamil Cyprian Choda, Maurits Sterk de Leeuw, and Fabian Schulz, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2020), 36–72 at 56–57. 42 For promised imperial visits between 313 and 324, see Opt., App. 7; Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.72.2–3, 3.20.2. For promised visits from 325 to 337, see Euseb., Vit. Const. 3.20.2; Opitz, Urk. 25.9, Urk. 29 (cf. Urk. 32.2–3), Urk. 34.42; Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 62, 68, 70, 86. It is unclear whether Constantine’s threat to investigate according to civil rather than ecclesiastical law (Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 68) constitutes the promise of an imperial visit or a potential summons. 43 Opitz, 25.9. For other examples of an imperial visit as reward in Constantinian correspondence, see Euseb. Vit. Const. 2.72.2–3, 3.20.2; Ath., Apol. contr. Ar. 62, 70.

Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) 219 44 Ath., Apol. contr. Ar. 68. Other instances of the emperor’s declared intent to personally judge a case may be found in Opitz, Urk. 29 (cf. 32.2–3), Urk. 34.42; Ath., Apol. contr. Ar. 68. 45 Ath., Apol. contr. Ar. 86. Additional examples of threatened punishment are in Opt., App. 5, 7; Ath., Apol. contr. Ar. 68. Note similar terminology with Opt., App. 7 (dated 315–316), which reads in Latin: perdam atque discutiam, or ‘destroy and shatter’. 46 For examples of Constantine’s summoning various individuals or parties to his court, see the following between 313 and 325: Opt., App. 5, App. 6; Opitz, Urk. 20, cf. Euseb. Vit. Const. 3.6.1. For occurrences between 325 and 337, see Opitz, Urk. 27.15–16, Urk. 29, Urk. 34.42; Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 59, 70, 86. 47 Opt., App. 7; Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.72.2–3. See also Timothy Barnes, The New Empire of Diocletian and Constantine (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1982), 76n124. 48 Opitz, Urk. 29. 49 Werner Eck, Die Verwaltung des Römischen Reiches in der Hohen Kaiserzeit: ausgewählte und erweiterte Beiträge (Basel: Friedrich Reinhardt Verlag, 1997), 111. 50 Examples of Constantine’s judicial language include Euseb., Hist. eccl. 10.5.19–20, 22; Opt., App. 3, 5, 6; Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.69.2; Opitz, Urk. 25.8, 27.15–17, 28.1–2, 33.2, 34.33–34, 34.39–41; Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 61–62, 68, 86. This is not an exhaustive list. 51 For the Greek text of both works, see Athanasius Werke 2.1: Die Apologien, Lfg. 1-7 (Hans-Georg Opitz, ed.; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1935–1941), 1–45, 87–168. The dates of Athanasius’ works remain a matter of debate, and I rely on arguments in Timothy Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius: Theology and Politics in the Constantinian Empire (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), 25–26, 192–195, 110–112, 198–199. See also Lewis Ayres, ‘Athanasius’ Initial Defense of the Term homoousios: Re-reading the De Decretis’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 12:3 (2004), 337–359 at 338; David M. Gwynn, The Eusebians: The Polemic of Athanasius of Alexandria and the Construction of the ‘Arian Controversy’ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 18–19, 29–31; Charles Kannengiesser, ‘The Dating of Athanasiuis’ Double Apology and Three Treatises Against the Arians’, Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 10:1 (October 2006), 19–33. 52 The documents appearing in these later histories are referred to under their numbering as they appear in Opitz’s compilation. See p. 49n16 in this volume. 53 See Lewis Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 100–102; Sara Parvis, Marcellus of Ancyra and the Lost Years of the Arian Controversy, 325-345 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 1–7, 96–133; Jon M. Robertson, Christ as Mediator: A Study of the Theologies of Eusebius of Caesarea, Marcellus of Ancyra, and Athanasius of Alexandria (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 97–136. 54 Opitz, Urk. 25.5; cf. Euseb., Vit. Const. 2.69.1–2, 2.70. 55 Opitz, Urk. 25.6. 56 Opitz, Urk. 25.7: τοῦτο γὰρ καὶ τῇ ἀγχινοίᾳ καὶ τῇ πίστει καὶ τῇ ὁσιότητι τῇ ὑμετέρᾳ πρέπει, ἵνα τῆς πλάνης ἐλεγχθείσης ἐκείνου, ὃν τῆς ἀληθείας ἐχθρὸν εἶναι συνέστηκε, πρὸς τὴν θείαν ἐπανέλθητε χάριν. Note the aesthetic argument. 57 Opitz, Urk. 25.9: διὸ μηδεὶς ἀμφιβαλλέτω, μηδεὶς ὑπερτιθέσθω, ἀλλὰ προθύμως πάντες εἰς τὴν ἀληθεστάτην ὁδὸν ἐπάνιτε, ἵν' ἐπειδὰν ὅσον οὐδέπω πρὸς ὑμᾶς ἀφίκωμαι, τὰς ὀφειλομένας τῷ παντεφόρῳ θεῷ μεθ' ὑμῶν ὁμολογήσω χάριτας, ὅτι τὴν εἰλικρινῆ πίστιν ἐπιδείξας τὴν εὐκταίαν ἡμῖν ἀγάπην ἀποδέδωκεν. 58 Opitz, Urk. 27.17: εἴ τις δὲ ἢ πρὸς μνήμην τῶν λυμεώνων ἐκείνων ἢ πρὸς ἔπαινον ἀπρονοήτως ἐξαφθῆναι τολμήσει παραχρῆμα τῆς ἰδίας τόλμης διὰ τῆς τοῦ θεράποντος τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦτʹἔστιν ἐμοῦ ἐνεργείας ἀνασταλήσεται. 59 Opitz, Urk. 27.9–16. 60 Barnes, New Empire, 76. According to Barnes, Constantine re-entered Nicomedia on 25 July 325 and remained there until around 15 September that year. The emperor

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Projecting imperial power in ecclesiastical affairs (325–337) was next at Constantinople on 13 October and Aquae six days later. His whereabouts in November and December 325 when, according to Opitz, the letter was written are not documented in surviving sources until 3 February 326 when he was at Heraclea. However, if this is the same as Heraclea Cybistra (modern Ereğli in Konya Province, Turkey), he could not have been far from Nicomedia in November or December 325. Opitz, Urk. 27.15: Ἀλεξανδρέας τινὰς τῆς ἡμετέρας πίστεως ἀναχωρήσαντας ἐνταῦθα κεκελεύκειν ἀποςταλῆναι, ἐπειδὴ διὰ τῆς τούτων ὑπηρεσίας ὁ τῆς διχονοίας ἠγείρετο πυρσός. For Constantine’s indictments against Eusebius, see Opitz, Urk. 27.9–16. Opitz, Urk. 29. For the letter’s text, see pp. 173–174 in this volume. Opitz, Urk. 32. Opitz, Urk. 32.2–3. Opitz, Urk. 32.2. For Arius’ and Euzoius’ written creed, see Opitz, Urk. 30. Timothy Barnes, ‘The Exile and Recalls of Arius’, JThS 60:1 (April 2009), 109–129 at 113; Opitz, Urk. 32.4: ἀπέστειλα τοιγαροῦν οὐ μόνον ἀναμιμνήσκων, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἀξιῶν ὑποδέξασθαι τοῦς ἀνθρώπους ἱκετεύοντας. Opitz, Urk. 32.4. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 230. See Opitz, Urk. 30; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.14, 1.23. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 230; cf. Sozom., Hist. eccl. 2.17. Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 59. Theod., Hist. eccl. 1.3; Sozom., Hist. eccl. 2.18. Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 59; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.27: Ἔχων τοίνυν τῆς ἐμῆς βουλῆς τὸ γνώρισμα, πᾶσι τοῖς βουλομένοις εἰς τὴν ἐκκλησίαν εἰσελθεῖν ἀκώλυτον παράσχου τὴν εἴσοδον. Ἐὰν γὰρ γνῶ ὡς κεκώλυκας τινὰς αὐτῶν τῆς ἐκκλησίας μεταποιουμένους, ἢ ἀπείρξας τῆς εἰςόδου, ἀποστελῶ παραχρῆμα τὸν καθαιρήσοντά σε ἐξ ἐμῆς κελεύσεως, καὶ τῶν τόπων μεταστήσοντα. See Lactant., Div. Inst. 5.19.11. Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 61–62. For the date, see Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 232. Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 60. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius, 178. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 231–232. Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 60. Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 60; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.27; Sozom., Hist. eccl. 2.22. See ‘Philumenus’ in PLRE 1, 699. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantine, 21n4. Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 61–62. Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 62.6. Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 62.7. Ath., Apol. contra Ar. 70. For the date, see Hanson, Search for Christian Doctrine, 257–258. Rowan Williams, Arius: Heresy and Tradition (2nd edn.; London: SCM Press, 2001), 77. Opitz, Urk. 34. See Opitz, Urk. 34.5 (>>πλήθηἔχομεν>τὴν τοῦ σώματος ξενίαν πρὸς οἰκονομίαν τῶν θείων ἐνεργειῶν>τὸ πνεῦμα τῆς ἀιδιότητος ἐν τῷ ὑπερέχοντι λόγῳ γεγενῆσθαι>ὑπόστασιν ξένην