Heresy. Frank P. Spinella
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promised greater tolerance in Alexandria, and Arius was anxious to test its limits. Quite a few free-thinking clerics throughout the Nile delta region had expressed some sympathy for his theological speculations, and he was grateful for that; but sympathy was a poor substitute for official recognition. Finally, he would now be restored to the legitimacy he craved. Ah, how sweet the taste of vindication! Since the moment Achillas’ letter had arrived, Arius could barely keep another thought in his head apart from the possibilities unfolding before him. Within the month, he expected, he would be elevated by Achillas from deacon to presbyter, and if he was reading between the lines of Achillas’ letter correctly, perhaps even given charge of Alexandria’s oldest church in the waterfront district of Baucalis, one reputedly established by Saint Mark himself. And after that . . . who could say?
The importance of the task he was about to undertake was firmly etched in Arius’s mind. His time of exile had opened his eyes to a harsh reality: Christianity throughout the Empire was splitting along theological lines to the point that its very foundation was being threatened. Sabellians argued with Monatists, and Novatians with both; factions of all sorts were everywhere undermining the faith. If its leaders continued to press their own disparate views on key theological points and did not adopt a consistent and defensible doctrine, the church would eventually founder from schisms, like a rudderless ship adrift in shallow waters. His old friend and mentor, Lucian of Antioch, had warned Arius of precisely this just before his execution in Nicomedia. That final night of his life, sitting soberly in his prison cell, he urged Arius to use his persuasive oratory skills as a tool for reform and unity. Do not waste your time debating with pompous bishops whose minds are not open to change, Lucian had counseled him; rather, preach the truth to the masses in simple terms, so that even the common believer can understand it. Work for change from the bottom up. Those who can reason for themselves do not want to be told what to believe; they want to trust in their own ability to understand the truth as rational beings. Make the Scriptures make sense, make Christ make sense, and the people will follow.
Now, at long last, an opportunity had come to put Lucian’s sage advice into practice, and Arius was determined to make the most of it. There was no more fertile ground for cultivating his rationalist approach to Christian doctrine than Alexandria, the city of Euclid and Ptolemy, of Philo and Plotinus, of Clement and Origen, home to the greatest library in the world, attracting scholars and truth seekers from far and wide. If any city could lay claim to the intellectual legacy of ancient Athens, surely it was Alexandria. Even among the common folk, one was as apt to hear Greek as Coptic on its streets, as likely to hear discussion of philosophy as of politics. Here the Septuagint, in many ways the very bible of the Christian church, had been penned, and here Arius would make it understood and defend it against the metaphoric interpretations so much in vogue in recent years. Yes, yes, Arius thought with a smile as he inhaled the cool, briny air and watched the distant glow of the lighthouse steadily increase in intensity, along with his excitement. The intellectual climate would be perfect for reception of his message.
He had no way of knowing that twelve hundred miles away, at that precise moment, a favorable change in the political climate was about to begin as well.
Chapter 3
Like any general whose army had performed admirably in battle, Constantine was cautiously optimistic. Despite leaving half of his forces along the Rhine to protect the Empire’s northern frontier, his civil war against Maxentius, his brother-in-law and rival for supremacy in the West, had thus far been going as smoothly as he could have hoped. Descending into Italy from the north, he encountered no resistance coming through the Alps, and was barely challenged by the loyalist forces stationed in the Piedmont foothills. A successful siege of the walled city of Segusium followed, and with the victory he ordered his troops to refrain from the usual plundering in order to court favor with the locals. “This is a war to liberate Rome, not to occupy it,” he told them.
The strategy worked. Word of Constantine’s leniency spread to the civilian populace ahead of his advancing legions, and when Maxentius’ garrisons at Turin marched out of the city to engage Constantine’s forces, its citizens barricaded the gates behind them, cutting off any retreat and forcing Maxentius’ soldiers to fight with their backs to the city walls. Their surrender quickly followed. Milan fell in a similar fashion, Parma soon afterwards, and then Modena and Bologna. Rome lay ahead. Constantine knew that Maxentius would defend it to the death. But would he remain in his well-fortified capital and try to repel the invasion from within its walls, or would he lead his army across the Tiber and carry the fight to his enemy?
The answer soon came back from Constantine’s scouts: Maxentius’ forces, significantly larger than Constantine’s, had already advanced their defensive position across the river at the Milvian Bridge and destroyed it behind them, setting in its place a makeshift pontoon bridge out of boats bolted together, over which his troops could retreat if necessary and then quickly disassemble behind them to hinder pursuit. But the decisive battle would be fought on this side of the Tiber.
Constantine dismissed the scouts and gazed up into the brilliant afternoon October sky, pondering his next move. Suddenly he had a strange and captivating vision; etched into the sky just above the sun, he saw clearly the imprint of a cross, the symbol of the Christians. He squinted, shielding his eyes with his forearm, and looked again, as directly as he could bear. Still there! When he closed his eyes the bright image remained, slowly fading but unmistakably emblazoned in shadowy relief against the insides of his eyelids. Opening them, he saw it anew, this time even more distinctly, until the searing sunlight again forced him to look away. Surely this must portend something, he thought—but what? Constantine was no Christian, although he had a measure of respect for the religion and its power over the minds of men; early in his military career he had seen many Christians willingly go to their deaths rather than sacrifice to other gods. His mother and stepmother were both Christian sympathizers, and had occasionally tried to interest him in learning more about the faith, but he had always rebuffed them. Now, he was presented with something he could not dismiss, something full of portent, a sign in need of interpretation.
Constantine summoned his officers and asked if they had seen the celestial cross; none said they had. Despite their quizzical looks, their lack of corroboration did nothing to shake his certainty in what he had witnessed. It puzzled him greatly, distracting his focus from the plan of attack that he and his officers were busily putting together for the following morning.
That night as he slept fitfully in his tent, Constantine received his answer. In a dream, he saw superimposed against each other the Greek letters chi and rho, the first two letters of Christos, and heard a booming voice which he took to be that of Christ himself, saying “In hoc signo vinces”—“By this sign you shall conquer.” The voice commanded him to inscribe the Chi-Rho symbol on his soldiers’ shields before going into battle. Constantine awoke, shaking and in a sweat, but determined to follow the divine instruction.
At dawn he summoned his officers, directing them to do as the dream had commanded, and within the hour hundreds of his soldiers’ shields bore in charcoal the Christogram that came to be known as the Labarum:
As he prepared for battle, and for the first time in his life, Constantine prayed to the Christian God: “Bring me this victory, and henceforth I shall worship none but you!”
By mid morning the two armies were fully engaged, Constantine himself leading one of the cavalry wings, the sign of Christos inscribed on his helmet. Constantine’s troops fought that day with a ferocity that put the defenders on their heels. His cavalry from the flanks and his infantry from the center relentlessly pressed Maxentius’ forces back toward the Tiber, which denied them the room to fall back and regroup, resulting in disorganization that gave the advantage to the invading army. As Maxentius’ cavalry was overwhelmed and his heavy infantry found itself pinned down, panic began to set in—for in destroying the Milvian Bridge, they had hindered their own retreat! Maxentius’ Praetorian Guard fought valiantly to the last man on the banks of the river, while his remaining troops rushed madly onto the pontoon bridge until it collapsed helplessly into the water. Maxentius himself drowned in the Tiber while attempting to escape, unable to swim the current in his