It is difficult for us to imagine life without the gods. For over 2,700 years, we have offered them sacrifices, observed their rituals and holidays, and through the gods’ mercy our society has been allowed to prosper. Everyone, from the wisest scholar to the smallest child, can attest to the invincibility of Jupiter and his brethren. However, the common man is often completely oblivious to the extent that the gods have steered our history, as well as how they were once far from the undefeatable image we have of them today. Indeed, though the cult is all but forgotten today, the gods of Rome once faced usurpation from the Christians.
Little is known about the Christians. The only surviving records of their existence come from government propaganda, a source tainted by bias. In their efforts to purge the Empire of these scoundrels, the Imperial sycophants were more than happy to devise obvious fabrications to further discredit the Christians, such as that they kidnapped Roman infants, or that their leader was a lowly criminal sentenced to crucifixion. What we can safely assume is true is that the Christians stemmed from the province of Judea in the late 8th century, and that they believed in only one god, denying the existence of the pantheon. The very presence of these atheists was a threat to the pax deorum, and many an Emperor made an effort to seek out Christians and convert them to the true faith of the state. But alas, for every insect one kills, a hundred more lurk unseen. The Christians would likely have continued to thrive in secret well into the present day, were it not for them making the grave mistake of attempting to seize the most powerful office in the Empire.
The culprit was Constantine, a jackal of a man who ruled as Caesar in the West. Discontent with the divisions of power that the Roman Tetrarchy provided, Constantine sought to usurp the seat of Maxentius, the rightful emperor in Rome. Rebellion soon broke out, and Constantine displayed his true colors as a leader, allowing the Empire he wished to rule over collapse into civil war. He even forced Maxentius’ father, the Augustus Maximian, into suicide. In spite of the warmonger’s advances, however, Maxentius held strong. He knew it would be better to die an honorable death in battle than to willingly hand the safety of his country to such a monster. And so, in the year 1065, when Constantine’s forces attempted to cross the Tiber, bearing Christian symbols on their shields, Maxentius and his men stood across the Milvian Bridge to stop them.
With so little of the battle remembered, it remains unclear how Maxentius, before that fateful day an inferior commander when compared to Constantine, was able to triumph. Perhaps the tide of the battle was turned by a simple quirk, a shift in the wind or a spooked horse. Perhaps Maxentius’ men were motivated by the luxuries the Emperor was known to bestow upon his favorite soldiers. Whatever it was that decided the battle, though, we can safely attribute it to divine intervention. Maxentius was willing to die for the well-being of the Empire, and for that Mars made sure to reward him. The next day, Maxentius paraded through the streets of Rome with Constantine’s head on a pike. As Rome’s citizens cheered for the victory of the rightful Emperor, Maxentius marched on to the Temple of Jupiter in Capitoline Hill, where a white ox awaited him. Taking the sacrificial knife in his hand, the pontifex maximus offered the animal to Jupiter, showing the proper gratitude to whom allowed his victory. After all, this battle was not merely the triumph of Maxentius over Constantine. It was the triumph of religion over atheism, of morality over degeneration. One shudders to imagine what fate we would have met under a ruler that denied the gods.
The matter of Constantine’s old ally, the Emperor Licinius in the Peninsula of Haemus, still remained. It was here that Maxentius turned to the unusual weapon of diplomacy. “The Empire has suffered from war for long enough,” the Emperor wrote in his epistle. “I wish not to fight, but to do what is best for the people of Rome. Mark my words, if your tyrant of a comrade had killed me, it would only be a matter of time before he killed you as well.” In 1066, the two rulers met in Mediolanum. Accompanying Maxentius was his old ally Maximinus Daia, Governor of Syria and Egypt, as well as his sister Fausta, freed from her abusive marriage with Constantine. With a gentle kiss on his sister’s hand (or so the historian Ammianus claimed), Maxentius offered Fausta as Licinius’ bride, a symbol for their newly-forged alliance. Addressing the crowd before them, the three rulers divided the Empire amongst themselves. Maxentius would rule in the West from Mediolanum, Licinius in the Northeast from Nicomedia, and Maximinus in the same provinces he governed before, from Antioch.
The three Emperors also agreed to a new law in effect throughout the Empire. What had made Rome great in its past was its faith. The wars, the recession, the corrupt politicians all stemmed from the same source. They had dared to let the impious walk on Roman soil. A Christian had sought the throne. He had attempted to murder the rightful Emperor, killed his father, and lay with his sister, and this was tantamount to treason. The old laws of Diocletian were no longer enough. The trio of Caesars vowed that they would not rest until not a single man, woman, or child in the Empire called themselves both an atheist and a Roman citizen.
Regiments of soldiers searched every house in the Empire for evidence of impiety. Atheistic books were burnt. Suspected Christians, as well as those of its sister faith, the Judaeorum, were gathered en masse and demanded to offer a sacrifice to the pantheon. Some converted peacefully. Others fled to the tolerance of Persia. What happened to those who refused to comply remains a mystery. Maxentius’ triad would not make the same mistake as the Emperors of old. These enemies of the state would not be granted the pleasure of an audience, made into a spectacle to inspire imitators. Whatever happened to the defiant atheists was done quietly, behind closed doors, and known only to the gods.
At the same time, Maxentius spared no expense in his effort to revive Rome’s faith in the old gods. New temples were built, and old ones renovated. Every Roman citizen soon returned to performing the rituals and sacrifices necessary to maintain the pax deorum. Artists were commissioned to depict and sing of the gods’ legacy. Priests travelled to the Gothic lands and the Kingdom of Axum, so the foreigners could adopt the gods of Rome as their own. Even the ancient ban on the Bacchanalia was lifted, for Rome could no longer risk the ire of any member of the pantheon. Within the decade, the threat of atheism had been no more than a distant memory. A new age of Roman piety had begun.
