Constantine's Conquest – Part 2
by Allen C. Guelzo
Part 1 of this article appears as a guest post on the Classical Wisdom Substack newsletter.
This is our very first guest post, and we are proud to do it with Classical Wisdom, an extremely valuable resource for engaging with and learning from the ancient world, founded by Anya Leonard.
If you like the Golden Thread, you are certain to be interested in Classical Wisdom. For example, they have recently been exploring the meaning and value of ancient myths, including an extended roundtable discussion on the topic with various experts. Ever wonder why ancient myths and tragedies don’t have a happy ending, or why ancient heroes often don’t seem very heroic? Ever been intrigued and horrified (and confused) by the terrible events of Sophocles’ Oedipus trilogy or Euripides’ Medea?
And now, Part 2 of Allen C. Guelzo’s “Constantine’s Conquests.”
Self-control was never Galerius’ long suit as the Augustus of the eastern empire. He twisted humiliating terms out of the Persians on the eastern frontier, and dared to levy taxes directly on the city of Rome. So, when he learned of Constantine’s succession to the title of Augustus in the west, he was furious at not having been consulted. But there was not much he could do about it. In the spring of 310, Galerius’ health decayed badly (probably cancer of the bowels).1 The man who had once been a principal persecutor of the Christians under Diocletian now turned to begging for their prayers as he clung to life, and in 311 even offered a reluctant repeal of the Diocletianic decrees. Since so “very many persisted in their determination” to oppose “offering worship to the gods … we have decided with our customary clemency … to extend to them our indulgence to permit them once more to be Christians.”2
Galerius died anyway that May. In the meanwhile, his Caesar, Maximin Daia, grasped the title of Augustus for himself – only to have that grasp contested by one of Galerius’ veteran generals, Valerius Licinius. Daia was able to buy him off by agreeing to recognize Licinius as Augustus for the provinces of Thrace and the Danube. But this meant that by the end of the year 311, there were now four Augusti, two each in the East (Daia and Licinius) and two in the West (Constantine and Maxentius). Such situations never last, and this one ended even more quickly than usual. In 312, Constantine, at the head of the legions from Britain and Gaul, marched into Italy and attacked Rome. Maxentius unwisely drew up his army with the Tiber River to his back, at the Milvian Bridge, whereupon Constantine handily routed Maxentius’ soldiers, with Maxentius getting drowned in the Tiber in the process. After conducting mopping-up operations in northern Italy, Constantine was hailed, not just as Augustus, but as Augustus Maximus.3
Daia had painted a target on himself by making overtures to the unfortunate Maxentius, and filled in the target by trying to carry on Diocletian’s original repressive policies against the Christians of the East. “He introduced a new mode of government in things respecting religion, and for each city he created a high priest” who “was to make daily sacrifices to all their gods, and, with the aid of the former priests, to prevent the Christians from erecting churches, or from worshipping God either publicly or in private; and he authorized them to compel the Christians to sacrifice to idols….”4
Daia’s talents for making enemies extended to Constantine and Licinius, who arranged their own pact. In return for territory in Italy, north Africa and Spain, Constantine agreed to stand aside and allow Licinius to dispose of Daia. Which he did: Daia provoked Licinius (“for he held Licinius in contempt”) by invading Thrace, and Licinius responded by handing Daia a comprehensive defeat near Adrianople. “Then were the troops of Daia slaughtered,” and Daia himself fled to Asia minor, where he died of cholera in June, 313.
The defeat of Daia might have allowed the two remaining Augusti, Constantine and Licinius, to settle back into the power-sharing pattern of Diocletian. Licinius, in fact, married Constantine’s sister, Constantia, and in 313 they issued a joint declaration in Milan, proclaiming toleration for Christianity – and every other religion – throughout the empire, and ordering the restoration of churches and other properties.5 But after the collapse of the Tetrarchy, even a dual monarchy was eventually to prove intolerable. In 323, Constantine invaded Licinius’ eastern territories and crushed Licinius’ legions at Chrysopolis on September 18, 324, banishing his erstwhile partner and leaving Constantine as the sole Augustus.
All of this might be little more than an exercise in chronicling the turmoil of late Roman antiquity had it not been for the fact that Constantine had declared himself an ally of the Christians in the empire, and with his victory brought Christianity not only a measure of legitimacy but brought them increasingly into the counsels of imperial power.
The question, of course, is: why? Constantine seems to have explained this as the result of a vision he received prior to the Milvian Bridge, that he was to conquer, no longer in the name of Sol Invictus, but of the Christian God. The Christian historian (and bishop) Eusebius claimed to have had it directly from Constantine that, at the start of his campaign against Maxentius, “he saw with his own eyes the trophy of a cross of light in the heavens, above the sun, and bearing the inscription, Conquer by this.” (In hoc signo vinces, or ἐν τούτῳ νίκα). As if that were not message enough, that night Constantine saw “in his sleep” a second vision, of “the Christ of God … with the same sign which he had seen in the heavens, and commanded him to make a likeness of that sign … and to use it as a safeguard in all engagements with his enemies.” That likeness was to be a “long spear, overlaid with gold,” with a “transverse bar” laid across it and bearing the Greek letters chi and rho “indicating the name of Christ.”6 From this, Constantine was to understand that Christ himself was fighting for Constantine, and that Constantine should alter his religious identity and practice accordingly.
That, at least, was how Eusebius reported matters in 340. The closer one moves to the event of the Milvian Bridge, the less certainty there is about the vision. The African, Lactantius, writing only two years after the Milvian Bridge, also reports on Constantine’s vision, but more matter-of-factly: “Constantine was directed in a dream to cause the heavenly sign to be delineated on the shields of his soldiers, and so to proceed to battle.”7 The earliest accounts of the campaign, in the twelfth and thirteenth of the anonymous Panegyrici Latini in 313, only suggests that Constantine was “advised by divine inspiration,” and concentrate instead on Maxentius’ own tyrannical follies as the cause of his downfall.8
There are a number of ways we can understand this:
o a pagan source might be reluctant to advertise the influence of a Christian vision on an emperor,
o a Christian source might be willing to exaggerate an emperor’s friendly conversion,
o an emperor might be willing to package himself as a Christian in order to ensure Christian political support, or,
o the whole thing happened just as Eusebius described it.
It may be useful on that score to remember that Constantine was, after all, a soldier-emperor in the mold of Diocletian, an outsider looking to recruit a stable foundation for his rule. That Maxentius had clearly appealed to the traditional pagan deities (and their aristocratic constituencies) only made it more natural for Constantine to identify himself with their opponents, and thus find a new protector for his cause. Certainly, he could not have picked a batter moment to do so. The Christians had received a severe set-back in the Diocletianic persecution, not only losing property and martyrs, but also any claim they had to Roman legitimacy. Constantine offered them a way of reclaiming their place in the world of romanitas, and their support for him would prove their title to standing in the Roman world.9
Still, we should not assume that this was purely a cynical bargain. In all likelihood, Constantine had been embracing aspects of Christian practice even while remaining officially a disciple of Sol invictus. If the Christians would assist him in overturning Maxentius and the pagan aristocracy of Rome, so much the more attractive Christianity appeared to him. Eusebius might be constructing too much of a halo around the pre-Milvian vision, but there is also no reason to doubt that Constantine had been sidling in Christian directions beforehand, and that a great deal of what Eusebius compresses into a single incident was actually a steady movement toward Christianity that Constantine had been conducting since 306.
That, in turn, produced a steady movement by Christianity, from Constantine’s conquest forward, to a position of dominance throughout the empire, and by Constantine toward being not merely an emperor, but the Christian emperor.
Timothy D. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge, MA, 1981), 33-34.
Bernard Green, Christianity in Ancient Rome: The First Three Centuries (London, 2010), 221.
Paul Stephenson, Constantine: Unconquered Emperor, Christian Victor (London, 2009), 146.
Lactantius, “Of the Manner in which the Persecutors Died,” The Ante-Nicene Fathers, eds. A. Roberts & J. Donaldson (Buffalo, NY, 1886), 7:315.
Eusebius, “Edict of Milan,” in Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, eds. P. Schaff & H. Wace (New York, 1890), 1:379-380.
Eusebius, “Life of Constantine the Great,” NPNF, 1:490-91.
Lactantius, “Of the Manner in which the Persecutors Died,” ANF, 7:318.
In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini, eds. C.E.V. Nixon & B.S. Rodgers (Berkeley, CA, 2015), 312.
Charles Norris Cochrane, Christianity and Classical Culture: A Study of Thought and Action from Augustus to Augustine (New York, 1957), 220.