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RELIGIOUS DISSENT IN LATE
ANTIQUITY, 350–​450
 OXFORD STUDIES IN LATE ANTIQUITY

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Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity, 350–​450

Maijastina Kahlos
Religious Dissent in Late
Antiquity, 350–​450

Maijastina Kahlos

1
 1
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‘Heathen,’ they called us. A word we learned from them.
If it meant anything, it meant people who don’t know what’s sacred.
Are there any such people? ‘Heathen’ is merely a word
for somebody who knows a different sacredness than you know.
Ursula K. LeGuin, Voices (London: Orion, 2006), 126
 Contents

Acknowledgements xi
Abbreviations xiii

Introduction: Rhetoric and realities 1

Religious dissenters 3
The emperors and the churches 6
Rhetoric and the realities of life 7
The themes of this book 10

SECTION I Imperial and ecclesiastical authority

1. The emperor and the dissenters 17
The rhetoric of public welfare and divine peace 17
Imperial striving for unity 24
2. The realities of legislation 27
Sound and fury 28
Good citizens and infamous dissenters 30
The realities of responsive legislation 33
The local realities of legislation 36
3. The bishops and the dissenters 40
Coping with diversity 41
Coping with the emperor 44
4. The local limits of imperial and ecclesiastical power 50
Patronage and local landowners 51
Laxity or tolerance? 54

vii
viii Contents

5. Authority and aggression 57

The narrative of Christian triumphalism 59
Triumph as legitimation 63
Vigour and violence 67
Initiating aggression 68
Supporting aggression 72
Controlling, punishing, and criticizing aggression 74
Imperial and ecclesiastical authority: Concluding remarks 79

SECTION II People in rhetoric and realities

6. Individuals, groups, and plural possibilities in Late Antiquity 85
Naming, listing, and labelling 88
‘Christians’ and Christian self-​perception 90
7. Otherness outside: Making pagans 92
Who were pagans? Stereotypes and realities 94
Flesh-​and-​blood pagans? 97
The first or last pagans? The self-​perception of pagans 100
8. Deviance or otherness inside: Construing heretics 105
The making of heresies—​and orthodoxy 106
Making Arians 111
Making Donatists 114
Making Pelagians 116
Heretics and social reality 118
9. Reactions 121
Accommodation: Conversion and conformity 122
Non-​violent resistance: Eloquent appeals 124
Non-​violent resistance: Silence and self-​segregation 127
Confrontations: Verbal and physical violence 131
People in rhetoric and realities: Some conclusions 134

SECTION III Time, place, practices

10. The transformation of practices 139
In search of local religion 140
Sacrifices in Late Antiquity 144
The abhorrence of sacrifice 147
The realities of pollution? 151
Disappearances, continuities, and adaptations 154
 Contents ix

11. Economics of practices 158

Competing for resources 159
Competing philanthropic practices 161
Blaming civic philanthropy 165
12. Sacred places and spaces 168
Shared cult places 170
Rhetoric of purification and reality of aesthetization 172
13. Sacred times and spaces 176
Feasts and spectacles 178
Christians and the New Year 180
The reality of popular needs 184
Funerary and martyr cults: Complaints and realities 187
14. Rhetoric and realities of magic 195
Dissenters and magic accusations 197
Roman suspicions and Christian fears 200
From traditional civic rituals to magic 204
From dissent Christianity to magic 206
Your magic, my miracle 207
Time, place, practices: Some conclusions 211
Conclusion: The darkening age or the victory of John Doe? 214
Authority: Attempts to control and define 215
People: Attempts to categorize people 216
Practices: Attempts to control practices 218

Bibliography 221
Index locorum 261
General Index 269
 Acknowledgements

Writing the acknowledgements is the most gratifying mo-

ment in writing this book. As I have been busy with Religious Dissent in Late
Antiquity for several years, there are many colleagues and friends whom I wish to
thank for inspiring, guiding, or supporting me through the process.
I wish to acknowledge a debt of gratitude to colleagues in Rome, Perugia,
Catania, Granada, Santander, Yale, Oxford, Exeter, St Andrews, Hawarden,
Frankfurt, Münster, Göttingen, Aarhus, and Budapest, just to mention a few
great scholarly places where I have attended colloquia and conferences over
these years and met the authentic res publica litterarum. For their comments,
advice, and hospitality, I wish to express my heartfelt thanks to Rita Lizzi, Chiara
Tommasi, Michele Salzman, Mar Marcos, Juana Torres, Alessandro Saggioro,
Hartmut Leppin, Richard Flower, Morwenna Ludlow, Douglas Boin, Lucy Grig,
Noel Lenski, Jan Willem Drijvers, Kate Cooper, Johannes Hahn, Jan Stenger,
Anders-​Christian Jacobsen, Tobias Georges, Averil Cameron, Neil McLynn, and
Marianne Sághy (for even though my thanks may no longer reach her, she will
always be in my warmest thoughts).
I am grateful to the entire team at Oxford University Press, especially Stefan
Vranka for his patience during the process. I owe special thanks for Ralph
Mathisen for taking my book into the Oxford Studies in Late Antiquity series
and the anonymous reviewers who meticulously commented on my manuscript,
made constructive suggestions, and saved me from many errors. I wish to thank
Albion M. Butters for conscientiously and patiently revising my English.
I have had the wonderful opportunity to enjoy academic freedom as a research
fellow, both at the Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies and the Centre of
Excellence ‘Reason and Religious Recognition’, University of Helsinki. Both
places have been inspiring, multidisciplinary sites of research and great sources of
brainstorming for a classicist and ancient historian, who was encouraged to start
thinking outside her frames of Antiquity. I am grateful for Sami Pihlström and

xi
xii Acknowledgements

Sari Kivistö for steady steering at the Collegium, and Risto Saarinen and Virpi
Mäkinen for real recognition at the Centre of Excellence. My thanks are also due
to the Ancient Team at the Centre, the leaders of the team, Ismo Dunderberg
and Outi Lehtipuu, and the team members, Vilja Alanko, Raimo Hakola, Niko
Huttunen, Ivan Miroshnikov, Marika Rauhala, Joona Salminen, Ulla Tervahauta,
Siiri Toiviainen, Anna-​Liisa Rafael, Miira Tuominen, and Sami Ylikarjanmaa, for
their advice over these years. My warmest thanks also go to other members at
the Centre—​to name just a few of them, Hanne Appelqvist, Sara Gehlin, Heikki
Haara, Heikki J. Koskinen, Ritva Palmén, Mikko Posti, and Panu-​Matti Pöykkö—​
for cooperation in the serious sense and community full of laughter, coffee, spin-
ning, and boxing.
I wish to thank my university colleagues Juliette Day, Alexandra Grigorieva,
Marja-​ Leena Hänninen, Mari Isoaho, Tua Korhonen, Mia Korpiola, Antti
Lampinen, Ilkka Lindstedt, Petri Luomanen, Nina Nikki, Katja Ritari, and Ville
Vuolanto for their collaboration and inspiration. And what would a human be
without her dear friends? Thanks for sharing and supporting, Johanna, Helena,
Katja, Marja-​Leena, Mia, Ritva, Pia, Tuula, and Ulla! This book was in the making
for quite a while. This led my spouse, Jarkko Tontti, unfaltering in his encourage-
ment, to make remarks in a manner similar to those which Dorothea uttered to
Casaubon in George Eliot’s Middlemarch:

‘And all your notes’, said Dorothea . . . ‘All the rows of volumes—​will
you not now do what you used to speak of?—​will you not make up your
mind what part of them you will use, and begin to write the book which
will make your vast knowledge useful to the world? . . .’ (George Eliot,
Middlemarch, Edinburgh: Blackwood, 1895, p. 147)

Jarkko comforted me that this will be my last book on the last pagans. Well, per-
haps not, but it may be time to ‘take it as an opportunity’ and do something else
for a change.
 Abbreviations

Abbreviations of the most well-​ known authors follow the conventions of

Thesaurus Linguae Latinae and Liddell and Scott, Greek–​English Lexicon.

ACO Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum, ed. E. Schwartz.

Berlin 1959
AntTard Antiquité tardive
BMCR Bryn Mawr Classical Review
CAH The Cambridge Ancient History
CCSL Corpus Christianorum Series Latina. Turnhout 1954–​
CIL Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum. Berlin 1862–​
CP Classical Philology
CSEL Corpus scriptorum ecclesiasticorum Latinorum
CTh Codex Theodosianus
CIust Codex Iustinianus
FIRA Fontes Iuris Romani antejustiniani II, ed. J. Baviera &
J. Furlani. Firenze 1968
IGLS Inscriptions grecques et latines de Syrie
ILCV Inscriptiones Latinae Christianae veteres. Berlin
1924–​1967
ILS Inscriptiones Latinae selectae, ed. H. Dessau. 1892–​1916
HThR Harvard Theological Review
JbAC Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum
JECS Journal of Early Christian Studies
JRS Journal of Roman Studies
JThS Journal of Theological Studies
LCL Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge MA 1912–​
MAMA Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua. Manchester
1928–​1988, London 1993

xiii
xiv Abbreviations

MGH AA Monumenta Germaniae historica, scriptores antiquissimi

MGH Cap. reg. Franc. Monumenta Germaniae historica, Capitularia regum
Francorum
MGH Leg. Monumenta Germaniae historica, Leges
MGH SS rer. Merov. Monumenta Germaniae historica, Scriptores rerum
Merovingicarum
NPNF Nicene and Post-​Nicene Fathers
PG Patrologia Graeca, ed. J.–​P. Migne. Paris 1857–​1866
PL Patrologia Latina, ed. J.-​P. Migne. Paris 1844–​1855
RAC Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum
RAL Rendiconti della classe di scienze morali, storiche e
filologiche dell’Accademia dei Lincei
SC Sources Chrétiennes. Paris: Cerf, 1943–​
Sirm. Constitutiones Sirmondianae
VC Vigiliae Christianae
 Introduction: Rhetoric and realities
I
n her recently published The Darkening Age: The Christian
Destruction of the Classical World, Catherine Nixey shares a story of the all-​
embracing, ancient world that triumphant Christianity destroyed.1 Nixey’s book
is, of course, a non-​fiction book aimed at a wider readership, not the academic
work of a specialist written for other specialists. Such a straightforward narrative
is probably sexier for the media and promises to get more online clicks than a
research report filled with unresolved questions and reservations.
In the research of the religious history of the late Roman world, however, we
must exercise extreme caution in the construction of such ostentatious narra-
tives. For this reason, Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity is not meant as a grand
narrative. Instead, the book challenges those biased accounts that build on sim-
plistic assessments of the categories of ‘paganism’ and ‘Christianity’.
The focus of this book is on the religious dissident groups in the late Roman
Empire in the period from the mid-​fourth century until the mid-​fifth century CE.
I am not claiming that this is a pleasant story. By analysing religious dissent in
Late Antiquity, I wish to demonstrate that the narrative is much more nuanced
than the simple Christian triumph over the classical world. My interpretation is
not sexy and sensational. Instead, it looks at everyday life, economic aspects, day-​
to-​day practices, and conflicts of interest.
There are, and there have been, many straightforward melodramatic narratives
over the centuries, both in academic research2 and in popular non-​fiction works.
One of these has been the long-​standing debate on the last phases of Roman
paganism. According to the traditional view, explicated especially by Andreas
Alföldi and Herbert Bloch after World War II, pagan aristocrats were united as a
heroic and cultured resistance against the advance of Christianity, and they even
rose up in the final battle near the Frigidus in 394. The notion of the last pagan
stand was promoted by Alföldi, Bloch, and others especially during and after the
war, in a Zeitgeist in which it was perhaps characteristic to construe Christian-​
pagan relations in terms of dichotomy and conflict.

1. E.g., Nixey 2017, 247: ‘The “triumph” of Christianity was complete.’ Nixey repeats the oft-​told story of
Christian triumph since Edward Gibbon, and before Gibbon, of the Christian church historians.
2. Athanassiadi 2006 and Athanassiadi 2010, 14 interpret the intellectual and spiritual development of Late
Antiquity as the change from the ‘zenith of acceptance’ (polydoxie) to the trend towards one-​sided thought (mono-
doxie); for criticism see Papaconstantinou 2011.

Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity, 350–450. Maijastina Kahlos. Oxford University Press (2020).
© Oxford University Press.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190067250.001.0001
2 Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity, 350–450

Later generations have outlined the world of Late Antiquity in more nuanced
ways than the interpretations put forward immediately during and after World
War II. The traditional interpretation of conflict has been challenged since the
1960s by Alan Cameron, among others.3 The ‘new radical’ view refutes the idea
of the last pagan resistance as a romantic myth and contends that there was nei-
ther a pagan reaction in a military sense nor a pagan revival in a cultural sense.
The fact that there are now more abundant and multifarious sources available for
late antique studies than ever before has also led to further reinterpretations of
the religious changes of Late Antiquity (the so-​called Christianization) of the late
Roman world.
However, the traditional view of conflict tends to live on in modern schol-
arship. It pops up in different forms, especially in non-​specialist books, such as
Nixey’s The Darkening Age. Why does the dichotomous and conflictual image of
the pagan reaction continue to attract scholars (not to mention the general audi-
ence)? It seems that the melodrama of a last resistance with discernible heroes is
both dramatic and simple enough to captivate more attention than the mundane,
everyday nuances of economic and social issues.4 In Christian literary sources,
the more committed or rigorist writers made a lot of noise, and it is this noise
that has influenced the tendency to see the religious history of Late Antiquity
primarily in antagonistic terms. The problems with these melodramatic grand
narratives—​either Christian triumphalism (often, but not always, connected
with the Christian confessional agenda) or a gloomy decline of classical civili-
zation (often, but not always, connected with a secularist worldview)—​is that, in
both cases, interpreters fall into the trap of taking the late antique, highly rhetor-
ical sources at face value.
This is why in Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity I address two aspects: rhet-
oric and realities. Both are necessary for understanding the religious history of
the late Roman Empire, particularly the shifting position of dissenting religious
groups. In terms of the first, the research focuses on the analysis of discourse used
in late antique sources, moving principally in the textual world of the writers. The
second aspect involves social and historical research, which surveys the prac-
tical circumstances of religious minorities in late Roman society. This approach
does not entail an epistemologically naïve distinction between the ‘text world’
and ‘historical reality’. These are not separable. Thus, this research delves into
the interplay between the manifest ideologies and daily life found in our sources.
The hundred years under scrutiny, from c. 350 to c. 450 CE, stretch approxi-
mately from Constantius II’s reign until the end of Theodosius II’s reign. The time
span covers the most crucial years of Christianization after the Constantinian
turn and, consequently, the shifts in relative power between religious majorities

3. See also Alan Cameron 2011.

4. For the attraction of melodramas, see Lavan 2011a, lv–​lvi.
 Introduction 3

and minorities. This period witnessed a significant transformation of late Roman

society and a gradual shift from the world of polytheistic religions into the
Christian Empire.5 However, this shift should not be plotted teleologically.
Rather, in the fourth century, a wide variety of religions, cults, sects, beliefs, and
practices coexisted and evolved in the Mediterranean world. The coexistence of
religious groups led sometimes to violence, but these outbreaks seem to have
been relatively infrequent and usually localized.
My purpose in this book is to explore what impact these changes had on the
position and life of different religious groups. In the late Roman Empire, con-
stant flux between moderation and coercion marked the relations of religious
groups, both majorities and minorities, as well as the imperial government and
religious communities. The area under examination is the late Roman Empire, in
both the East and West. In my analysis of the status and everyday life of different
religious groups, I am not aiming at an exhaustive or systematic treatise on what
is clearly a wide-​ranging topic. What I propose to provide is a detailed analysis
of selected themes and a close reading of selected texts, tracing key elements and
developments in the treatment of dissident religious groups. I have concentrated
on specific themes, such as the limits of legislation, the end of sacrifices, the label
of magic, and the categorization of dissidents into groups.

Religious dissenters

The religious groups under consideration are pagans and heretics. These terms
are only shorthand: ‘pagans’ for non-​Christians or polytheists; ‘heretics’ for
Christians marked as deviants. Furthermore, these terms are relational. Pagans
were a creation of Christian writers, of course; there would have been no pagans
without the viewpoint of Christians. Likewise, the question of who is a heretic
naturally depends on the perceiver.6 I am inclined to call the religious groups
under scrutiny religious dissenters or dissidents, as well as deviant groups or reli-
gious deviants.
In late Roman society, relations between the religious majorities and minori-
ties fluctuated. Over the course of the fourth century, Christianity shifted from
a minority position to the majority one, or at least a strong minority, while the
Graeco-​Roman religions gradually fell to a minority position, or a silent and
weakened majority.7 It is impossible to precisely define the relative proportions

5. The Christian Roman Empire here means the empire governed by Christian emperors, as in many regions
it may have remained non-​Christian in other aspects.
6. For discussions on the term ‘polytheist’, see Cribiore 2013, 7. The use of the terms ‘pagan’ and ‘heretic’ is
covered in more detail in ­chapters 7 and 8.
7. For the majorities and minorities in Late Antiquity, see Brown 1961; Kaegi 1966, 249; Haehling 1978;
Barnes 1989, 308–​309; Barnes 1995; MacMullen 2009, 102–​103; Alan Cameron 2011, 178–​182; and Salzman 2002
on Roman aristocracy; except for Barnes, scholars usually estimate that the majority of the elite remained pagan up
to c. 400.
4 Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity, 350–450

of the religious groups in the Roman Empire. At best, we can make guesstimates.
Moreover, the proportions of religious groups varied by area. Therefore, it is
problematic to speak of religious minorities, because we cannot specify which
groups—​for example, pagans or Christians—​were in the majority or minority in
a specific place at a specific time.
The same applies to the power relations between the Nicene and other
Christian groups (e.g., Homoians, or ‘Arians’, as they were called by the Nicene
Christians). In certain areas and spheres of politics at specific times, as in the
imperial court during the reigns of Constantius II and Valens, the Homoians
held the upper hand while the Nicenes (or pro-​Nicenes) were at risk of being
marginalized as deviants.8 Consequently, for most of the fourth century, the
boundaries for the normative orthodoxy were in flux. Thus, what was ‘orthodox’
and what was ‘heretical’ were under continuous negotiation and struggle. Nicene
Christianity eventually became the imperially supported church and the main-
stream institution as late as the end of the fourth century, calling itself the
Catholic Church.9 Nonetheless, in terms of the proportions and power relations
that were significant, one cannot overemphasize the regional differences within
the Roman Empire.10 What constituted the dominant group in one area did not
hold true in another region.
In this book, I examine the ways in which dissident religious groups were
construed as religious outsiders in late Roman society. The question of outsiders,
or ‘aliens’ (alieni, allotrioi) in relation to ‘our’ religion and society, is a matter of
who is outside, but also who is within; accordingly, it requires a formation of a
mode of thinking about insiders (nostri, oikeioi).11 Imperial legislation followed
the logic that those who were ‘aliens’ or ‘foreigners’ in matters of religion were
also aliens or foreigners in the eyes of Roman law.12 Another question is how fre-
quently this judicial infamia was handed down as a penalty and how significantly
it influenced dissidents’ everyday lives in practice. Citizenship was only one as-
pect of social status and practical circumstances.
It is unavoidable that humans divide the world into ‘us’ and ‘them’. Both indi-
viduals and groups distinguish themselves from the other and, by construing dif-
ferences, make sense of themselves. There is no self or collective identity without

8. According to McLynn 2005, 86, in the 380s–​390s, the Nicenes did not necessarily enjoy an overall ascend-
ancy; Barnes 1997, 1–​16, however, regards Homoians as already defeated by that point. Positions of power are not,
of course, the same as the number of adherents.
9. The status of the creed settled in the Council of Nicaea (in 325) came to be recognized only gradually as the
divinely inspired and unalterable standard of faith. For the complexities of the fourth-​century doctrinal disputes,
see Ayres 2004, 139–​239; Gwynn 2007; Gwynn 2010; Wiles 1996.
10. Fredriksen 2008, 99 estimates that the groups outside the Nicene church constituted the majority of the
total population in the fourth century and perhaps later.
11. The issue of oikeioi and allotrioi in the fourth century is highlighted by Elm 2012, 432.
12. Gaudemet 1984, 7–​37. See c­ hapter 2.
 Introduction 5

an other or others. Subsequently, the other is necessary in the construction of

the self, with the self and the other being dependent on and complementary to
one another.13 A group or community marks, clarifies, and checks its boundaries
through defining the other. To the other are often ascribed the qualities that a
group or community prefers not to see in itself. Therefore, the ways in which late
antique religious dissenters were construed as a religious other reveal the pro-
cesses of identity-​building in late Roman society. Here identity is not understood
as a stable entity but rather as something shaped, probed, and negotiated, being
always in the making.14
The use of the term ‘identity’ in classical and early Christian studies has often
been criticized. According to critics, identity is a modern and thus anachronistic
concept, and is therefore not a proper tool for understanding people in the an-
cient world. Nonetheless, we are bound to our modern language in other respects
as well—​I am here writing in modern English, to use just one example. To take
my point to the extreme (this is an argument ad absurdum, I admit), to properly
remain within the period under scrutiny, should we use the vocabulary and con-
cepts of the ancients only? In the case of the religious dissidents, this would mean
employing terms such as ‘divine wrath’, ‘pollution’, and ‘demonic machinery’—​all
in Latin and Greek. Therefore, while we cannot avoid modern concepts, we can
be aware of the hazards of using them. As Denise Buell appositely points out,
‘the problem is not that modern ideas are distorting historical analysis, since
we can only interpret the past from the vantage point of the present’.15 Modern
concepts like identity and othering, often taken from sociological research, are
part of historical analysis from an etic or observer-​oriented perspective—​that
is, observations made from outside. To impose classifications from a purely etic
perspective necessarily imports modern categories and conceptions. Therefore,
it is imperative to analyse emic terminology as well—​that is, the ancient terms
and concepts employed in ancient contexts.16 Historical research is a continuous
act of balancing between etic and emic perspectives. Nonetheless, it is clear that
the emic or subject-​oriented approach—​that is, from the inside—​is not adequate.
We need holistic analysis from the outside, but using modern conceptual tools.
The construction of the other is hierarchical, and this applies to late Roman
society, too. Making differences is based on power relations: ranking superiors

13. For a general introduction to theories of otherness, see Kahlos 2011a. For a theoretical discussion, see
Stuart Hall 1997, 234–​238; Green 1985, 49–​50; Judith Lieu 2004, 269; Shusterman 1998, 107–​112; Gruenwald 1994,
9–​10; Woolf 1998; Woolf 2011; Jonathan Hall 1997.
14. For useful discussions on the use of identity in modern scholarship and on the criticism of its use in pre-
modern texts, see Iricinschi and Zellentin 2008b, 2, 11–​12 n. 40; Judith Lieu 2004, 11–​17; Cribiore 2013, 138.
15. Buell 2005, 4; see also Buell 2005, 14, remarking that ‘the question of the viability of using these [modern]
categories . . . is partly about how to formulate an interpretive framework that accounts for historical difference
while still being intelligible to the interpreter. . . . We can place modern categories into conversation with ancient
ones without effacing their differences.’
16. Headland, Pike, and Harris 1990—​esp. Harris 1990, 48–​61 and Pike 1990, 62–​74. See also Stratton 2007,
14–​16 on emic and etic perspectives in the research of ancient ‘magic’.
6 Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity, 350–450

and inferiors morally, existentially, and/​or socially. Very seldom can we speak of
groups or communities being held as equals. The representation of a group or in-
dividual as inferior, subordinate, alien, foreign, or abnormal—​as compared to the
self—​is called ‘othering’.17 In Late Antiquity, we observe othering discourses and
othering patterns of thinking that diminish or entirely ignore common features
between the other and the self. The other always includes the repressed aspects of
the self. Othering signifies subordination or segregation.

The emperors and the churches

‘Imperial power’ is here understood as the emperors in both the East and the
West, the imperial courts, and the administration, as well as the elites closely
connected to the courts and in a position to influence imperial decision-​making.
The most important sources for the imperial discourse of power are imperial
proclamations, letters, and legislation. Panegyrics addressed to emperors reveal
themes and attitudes important to the elites close to the imperial establishment.
In the fourth century, the Roman emperors adopted an increasingly autocratic
style of government, and this is apparent in the imperial rhetoric. As we will see
in ­chapter 2, imperial power (like any other form of power) was not self-​evidently
fixed, but constantly negotiated at every level of law-​making and government.
The authoritative language of legislation was used not only to manifest imperial
power, but also to create and reinforce it.
‘Ecclesiastical power’ refers here to church leaders—​mainly bishops, whose
authority was increasing during the fourth and fifth centuries. There was no
uniform church, and Christian congregations were miscellaneous assemblages
of adherents. Therefore, we should speak of Christian churches in the plural
rather than the Church in the singular.18 The mainstream church or mainstream
Christianity is understood in this case as the Christian inclination that in this pe-
riod gradually became the dominant church supported by the emperors, usually
called the Catholic Church in scholarship. I prefer to avoid the term ‘Catholic
Church’, which is problematic because most churches of the period regarded
themselves as catholic, meaning ‘universal’. For example, the North African
Christian group—​called Donatists by their rivals and subsequent generations of
scholars—​considered itself the catholic church. It regarded its opponents merely
as traditores or Caeciliani, basing the name on the rival bishop of Carthage,
Caecilianus.19 The terms ‘mainstream church’ or ‘mainstream Christianity’ are
also problematic, because it is far from clear which church was prevailing in a

17. ‘Othering’ refers here to the representation of a person or group of people as fundamentally alien from
another, frequently more powerful, group. See Stuart Hall 1997, 258–​259; J. Z. Smith 1985, 5; Klostergaard Petersen
2011, 19–​50.
18. Regarding the problems of speaking of one Christianity, see Salzman 2008, 189 and Hopkins 1998, 90–​94.
19. Shaw 1992, 7–​14, esp. 8 on the hegemonic domination of the labelling process of Donatists.
 Introduction 7

specific region at a specific time. The ‘Donatist’ church was dominant in North
Africa for most of the fourth century. Furthermore, it was not the same church
that enjoyed imperial backing all the time. As is well known, the emperors
Constantius II and Valens were sympathetic to the Homoian (‘Arian’) inclination
and supported Homoian bishops, while other emperors, especially Theodosius
I, showed their support to the Nicene (‘catholic’) inclination—​the future main-
stream church.
The period under scrutiny saw the Christianization of imperial and eccle-
siastical discourses of control. I analyse the ways in which these differed from
the earlier discourses of power in regard to religious dissenters. We can observe
divergences from earlier rhetoric legitimating Roman and imperial power, but
also remarkable continuity.20 Furthermore, when studying the relationship be-
tween imperial and ecclesiastical powers, we can see both collaboration and ri-
valry. The rhetoric of both the imperial government and the leading bishops often
argued for a correlation between the unity of the empire and that of the church.
In the ecclesiastical discourses of power, we recognize rhetoric of conviction and
persuasion as well as that of control and discipline. Averil Cameron’s Christianity
and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse (1991) char-
acterized Christian rhetoric as a ‘totalising discourse’ in the sense that it aimed
at a comprehensive interpretation of reality, subsuming or excluding other inter-
pretations. The Christian message thereby became a complete worldview.21

Rhetoric and the realities of life

Late antique writers often conveyed a simplified and codified perception of their
lived world. This work studies the interplay between the manifest ideologies and
daily realities. My analysis of imperial and ecclesiastical rhetoric draws attention
to their attempts to eliminate ambiguity or dissent, as well as to ways in which re-
ligious dissenters and outsiders were represented in rhetoric. In Graeco-​Roman
Antiquity, harsh slander was a ubiquitous element in the discursive warfare of
political disputes, law courts, conflicts between religious groups, and debates be-
tween philosophical schools. Christian writers’ invectives against their theolog-
ical adversaries, or bishops’ denunciation of pagans, followed well-​established
conventions of polemic. In the analysis of polemical sources, we should focus
on what their rhetoric reveals about their aims and ambitions and how the
writers constructed a reality of their own through text. This is a step away from
thinking about late antique ecclesiastical writing (for example, heresiological and

20. Discourse here is not simply a collection of sentences. It is not merely a form of knowledge but also a prac-
tice, since it confers and regulates power. Discourse and discursive practices are specific to each culture at a given
period, and they are thus the historically situated frames of reference that validate what counts as knowledge in a
certain historical context. Foucault 1971; Lincoln 1992, 3–​5; Perkins 2009, 6–​7; Stratton 2007, 18.
21. Averil Cameron 1991, esp. 220–​221. See also Hargis 1999, 7–​8 and de Bruyn 1993, 406.
8 Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity, 350–450

hagiographical texts) as sources of information; we should rather understand

them as performative or functional texts.
I extend the scope of the analysis to the complexities of social reality, con-
textualizing the dissident groups and their social circumstances. As mentioned
above, the status of groups is studied on different levels of rhetoric and reality.
The practical circumstances and complex religious atmosphere can be deter-
mined not only from literary sources, but also from archaeological evidence,
inscriptions, and papyri. Literary sources may often convey a different picture
than the archaeological, epigraphical, or papyrological evidence. A variety of
non-​literary sources reveal that religious diversity persisted or even increased in
Late Antiquity. Whereas a writer could celebrate the destruction of shrines and
idols in a certain region, archaeological evidence often reveals a less dramatic
picture (for example, the continuity of practices or the simple abandonment and
decay of shrines).22 Literary sources—​even by the very same author, depending
on the perspective or the genre of their writing—​give inconsistent representa-
tions of the religious and social circumstances. For example, Isidore, a presbyter
of Pelusium, magnanimously proclaimed in the 430–​440s that Hellenism (that
is, paganism) had vanished: ‘Hellenism, made dominant for so many years, by
such pains, such expenditure of wealth, such feat of arms, has vanished from the
earth.’ At the same time, the very same Isidore was caught up in disputes with
pagans, as revealed by his letters addressed to pagan opponents; moreover, he is
known to have written a treatise titled Against the Pagans, which is unfortunately
no longer extant.23
Other challenges in interpreting our sources are topoi, literary conventions
or traditional motifs and themes. In their sermons, bishops made ample men-
tion of pagans, the purpose of which varied according to the motivations of each
writer. There are numerous representations of pagans in fourth-​and fifth-​century
Christian literature, which include, for example, the motif of good pagans and
the theme of wretched pagans engaged in magical practices. Looking at the texts,
it is often clear that we are dealing with rhetorical commonplaces in which the
real humans are far away. In other cases, it is equally evident that writers are
referring to pagans in factual everyday situations, even though they are treating
their subject in adherence to the literary conventions of their erudite tradition.
Although various labels and stereotypes, such as pagan blindness and rusticity,
are used to depict these people and their practices, they still have some equiv-
alence in quotidian reality. For example, Augustine of Hippo and Maximus of
Turin complain of people clinging to idolatrous rituals and taking part in pagan

22. Garnsey and Humfress 2001, 165. See, for example, Goodman 2011, 165–​193 on iconoclasm in texts (tri-
umphalism) versus archaeological evidence, and Sears 2011, 231 on a model of inexorable Christianization versus
archaeology.
23. Isid. Pelus. ep. 1.270 (PG 78, 344). Trans. Kaegi 1966, 243, modified. For Isidore’s correspondence and
discussions with pagans, see Jones 2014, 83–​84.
 Introduction 9

festivities. In addition to these pagans existing and acting in factual social con-
texts, it is possible to see that they were also used as a theological construction,
which functioned as a mirror image in which one’s own theological views and
moral conduct could be tested, and defended. Thus, there are pagans and ‘pagans’
in the same way as there are Jews and ‘Jews’ in early Christian literature: theolog-
ical Jews were vital for the construction of Christian identity.24 The complexity of
different levels can be observed in testimonies in which researchers have found
local forms of religiosity in Late Antiquity, construed by ecclesiastical writers and
councils as ‘magical’, ‘pagan’, or ‘heretical’, according to the literary conventions
of the time. We will see, especially in ­chapter 10, how religious diversity persisted
despite the ideals outlined by ecclesiastical leaders and despite the manifestations
promulgated by the imperial administration.
Historical sources tend to highlight the dramatic, violent, and spectacular at
the expense of repeated routines and undisturbed everyday life. They are also
wont to focus on specific and exceptional incidents. They do not make comments
on peaceful conditions when everything goes as expected. Therefore, realities
here also refer to the compromises made by emperors who tried to manage the
diversity that persisted in their empire. Furthermore, the realities of life included
daily economic concerns. Dissident groups could be marginalized by directing
sanctions against their economic relations and juridical status. It was no minor
issue which of the churches (e.g., either the Caecilian or Donatist church in
North Africa) enjoyed imperial privileges. Obviously, the social life filled with
negotiations and compromises was more complex than church leaders wished.
The day-​to-​day realities lead us to the problematic concept of Christianization,
as the term ‘Christianization’ may refer to both the process and its results.25 As Jitse
Dijkstra remarks, it is useful to ask from whose angle we look at Christianization—​
from our perspective or an ancient perceiver’s. Furthermore, we should consider
whether Christianization was the process of a person, a group, a region, or Roman
society in general.26 Christianization has as many definitions as there were defin-
ers. Each late antique writer, Christian leader, Roman administrator, and indi-
vidual had a notion of his or her own of what becoming Christian and making
the empire, region, or household Christian implied. Each modern scholar also
has her or his own views of what constituted Christianization in the late Roman
Empire—​depending on the scholar’s perspective—​be it classics, social history,
the history of ideas, systematic theology, biblical studies, church history, religious
studies, archaeology, or art history, among other things—​not to mention her or
his age, gender, nationality, and religious/​non-​religious inclination. For my part,

24. Kraabel 1985, 219–​246.

25. On problems with the concept of Christianization, see Inglebert 2010, 9–​17; Busine 2015, 2–​5; Leppin
2012, 247–​278.
26. Dijkstra 2008, 16–​17. Similar problems are involved with the use of the term ‘Romanization’: see Woolf
1998, 5–​7.
10 Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity, 350–450

I look at Christianization as part of a wider process of religious transformations

in the Mediterranean world, which embraced what we distinguish and call by the
separate names of Graeco-​Roman, Christian, Jewish, and Manichaean religions.27

The themes of this book

My discussion starts with Section I: Imperial and ecclesiastical authority, which

first focuses on imperial and ecclesiastical rhetoric of power and then observes
both the interaction and the power struggle between the imperial and ecclesias-
tical authorities. The rhetoric of alienation and aggression is counterbalanced by
a discussion of the limits of power, such as the realities of making laws. I analyse
these dynamics of power on the macro level of the state and church. The chapters
explore the development of the legal status of religious dissidents, the attempts
to enhance religious unity by both the emperors and bishops’ authorities, and
the rhetoric of public welfare. As we will see, the imperial and ecclesiastical dis-
courses in legislation and the canons of church councils were offset by the limits
of power—​in making and enforcing laws, negotiating power in ecclesiastical dis-
putes, and taking local circumstances, such as the patronage of local landowners,
and local diversity into account.
In Section I, the categories ‘pagans’ and ‘heretics’ are treated as a given be-
cause imperial and ecclesiastical discourses build and maintain these catego-
ries. However, we need to move beyond these categories. Therefore, in Section
II: People in rhetoric and realities, I analyse the construction of ‘pagans’ and
‘heretics’. In due course, these categories are questioned and finally decon-
structed. Section II surveys both the rhetoric of separation against dissident
groups and the relations between religious groups. Social, religious, and cultural
encounters were complex moments in which the identities of groups or individ-
uals were never fixed but always multivariable, fluid, and negotiated. The realities
and pragmatic solutions of everyday life included accommodation and flexibility
in interfaith relations as well as aggression and resistance.
After questioning and deconstructing the ancient and modern use of these
categories, we move on to Section III: Time, place, practices, which offers an
alternative way of looking at the late antique religious world: through local re-
ligion. This is an attempt to get beyond categorization, labelling, and the listing
of groups in the imperial and ecclesiastical writings—​thus restoring agency to
the individuals. The purpose of this section is to show how late antique people
were not passive recipients of change, but instead actively took part in creative
interaction. Therefore, I explore how the dissident religious groups coped with
day-​to-​day social life in urban and rural communities, and I analyse social, ec-
onomic, and cultural structures. Rhetoric by emperors and ecclesiastical writers

27. For the religious koine of the Mediterranean world, see Stroumsa 2008, 30.
 Introduction 11

against practices, feasting, and places was balanced by the realities of everyday
life. Many traditional rituals and local communal practices went through a series
of metamorphoses in the fourth and fifth centuries, and this section explores the
transformations of such practices as sacrificial rituals, as well as their economics
and the competition over and sharing of holy places and sacred times. Section
III ends with a discussion of how the label of ‘magic’ functioned as a boundary
marker between what was understood as the proper religion and the deviant one.
 SECTION I

Imperial and ecclesiastical authority

T he chapters in this section look at the attempts of the late
antique imperial government and ecclesiastical leaders to eliminate ambiguity,
diversity, and dissent. At the same time, the constraints that these attempts
encountered are discussed. What was the potential to achieve religious unity, and
what were the limits? In this section, the groups ‘pagans’ and ‘heretics’ are treated
as a given, because imperial and ecclesiastical rhetoric built and maintained these
categories and based their totalizing discourse on them.1
I analyse these dynamics at the macro level of the state and church, focusing
first on imperial and ecclesiastical rhetoric of power concerning religious dissi-
dent groups, and then observing both the interaction and power struggles be-
tween imperial and ecclesiastical authority. The chapters survey the development
of the legal status of religious dissidents, the aims of religious unity by both the
imperial and ecclesiastical bodies, and the rhetoric of public welfare. The power
discourses, comprising imperial and ecclesiastical rhetoric in legislation and the
canons of church councils, were counterbalanced by the limits of power—​the
realities, for instance, of making and enforcing laws, negotiating power in ecclesi-
astical disputes, and considering local circumstances. The important topics here
are the patronage of local landowners, local diversity, and attempts by imperial
powers to create balance between different religious groups.
The concepts of ‘power’ and ‘authority’ overlap each other in significant ways,
though there are nonetheless important differences. I take ‘power’ as a combina-
tion of physical domination and persuasion—​as in the case of Roman imperial
power over the subjects of the empire. For its part, ‘authority’ is a socially con-
structed form of power to which members of the society submit without coercion
as long as its legitimacy is recognized. The idea of authority is fluid and flexible.
As authority is socially constructed, it is constantly negotiated and renegotiated
by members of the society.2 Power (and authority even less so) is by no means
the same as the exercise of physical domination or violence. Power can be based
on persuading people to bend to the authority that all accept as collectively valid,
but in many cases, especially in Graeco-​Roman Antiquity, it may be based on
physical domination as well. Power was usually a combination of persuasion and
physical domination, as is well shown in the analysis of power and persuasion in

1. ‘Totalizing discourse’ refers to a comprehensive interpretation of reality, such as the Christian one in Late
Antiquity. Averil Cameron 1991, esp. 220–​221; de Bruyn 1993, 406.
2. This Weberian outlining of authority is discussed, for example, in Kangas, Korpiola, and Ainonen
2013, ix–​xi.

13
14 Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity, 350–450

the late Roman Empire by Peter Brown.3 Roman imperial power was typically es-
tablished on the basis of, and maintained by, both physical domination and per-
suasion. One cannot play down the fact that Roman supremacy throughout the
provinces (and beyond) was based on the use and threat of violence. Neither the
threat of violence nor its use can be ignored in the research of Christianization.
Nonetheless, violence is not the whole picture. The religious rivalries of Late
Antiquity involved authority and persuasion, power and physical violence, dom-
ination, and economic pressures. The term ‘coercive turn’ illustrates this change.
Coercion here implies not only physical force and violence, but also hegemony
in economic relations, such as those between landowners and tenants.4 The
Foucauldian notion that power not only entails the exercise of physical force,
but also language that shapes and constructs reality, explains the attempts of the
imperial government and ecclesiastical leaders to constrain and control practices
and sources of knowledge. For example, since the early principate, the contin-
uous concern of emperors for divination, to gain knowledge of the future, was re-
lated to the maintenance of authority. Emperors sought to restrain unsanctioned
private soothsaying, which they believed to be connected with conspiracy and
treason. This was associated with the concept of ‘magic’, which was one of the
gravest crimes in Roman law. Consequently, magic was the most dangerous label
for religious dissenters to be associated with in imperial legislation.5
Religion and power/​authority were intrinsically intertwined in late Roman
society. Religion had a central role in forming collective identities and defining
relations with other groups in the Graeco-​Roman world. In Late Antiquity, the
role of religion may have even become more significant than previously. In their
refashioning of the authoritative metanarrative of society, Christian leaders suc-
cessfully combined the Christian rhetoric of persuasion and conviction with the
Graeco-​Roman elite discourse and the Roman imperial language of control and
discipline. However, these discourses were not static but prone to change. In the
early imperial period, as Judith Perkins shows, Christians as a cultural movement
had challenged the totalizing elite discourse, employing universalizing language
to create a cosmopolitan trans-​empire identity for themselves, thus disrupting
the imperial elite’s monopoly on authority. Ultimately, the imperial elite was

3. Brown 1992, esp. 7–​11.

4. For the Foucauldian notions of interwovenness of power, knowledge, and violence, see Jacobs 2003, 6–​7 and
Lenski 2009, 2–​4. Foucault distinguishes power from violence that does not require any dynamic exchange between
active agents but is based rather on physical domination over passive subjects. Lenski 2009, 3–​4 takes coercion as
both physical force and the domination of economic relationships, such as production and property-​holding. The
term ‘coercive turn’ is used, for example, by Drake 2008, 450–​451; for discussions on coercion and physical violence,
see also Sizgorich 2009; Gaddis 2005; Mayer 2013, 1–​19.
5. For attempts at controlling and building an imperial monopoly of knowledge, see Fögen 1993, 254–​289. For
the interconnection between politics, religious policies, and magic, see Wischmeyer 1998, 95; Funke 1967, 145–​151;
MacMullen 1966, 129–​162.
 Imperial and ecclesiastical authority 15

transformed into a Christian elite, and its rhetoric was replaced by new forms of
Christian totalizing discourses.6
By its nature, discourse is about power. In achieving enduring social control, it
is even more effective than the brute exercise of force. In Late Antiquity, emper-
ors and church leaders sought to determine the right behaviour and correct be-
lief, and to control what could be said (and imagined). Since discourse constructs
social meanings, it is a means by which power is distributed in the matrix of the
power relations of a society. In imperial and ecclesiastical rhetoric—​for example,
in legislative texts and the sermons of bishops—​certain religious groups were
argued to be alien to the Roman order. Roman power and order were believed to
be divine in origin. Consequently, appropriate forms of worship and conceptions
of the divine were thought to be crucial for the successful government of the em-
pire and even for the maintenance of the cosmic order. As one imperial decree
stated, religion was the foundation of the empire: ‘We are aware that our state is
sustained more by religious practices (religionibus) than through offices, physical
labour, and sweat.’7
In imperial legislation and ecclesiastical polemic, religious dissenters were
labelled as belonging outside the Roman state, Graeco-​Roman civilization, and
oikoumene—​and also, in the crudest cases, outside humankind. Thus, at issue
was who was inside and who was outside, or who was Roman and who was alien
(alienus, allotrios). This is what Ambrose of Milan hinted at when refuting the
appeal made by the Roman senator Symmachus (345–​c. 402) for the continua-
tion of imperial support for the traditional Roman cults. For Ambrose, Christian
was identical with ‘Roman’, and pagan with ‘non-​Roman’, or even barbarian. He
asserts that the only thing that pagan Rome had in common with barbarians was
idolatry, and he portrays the personification of Rome by saying ‘I did not know
God is the one thing I once had in common with barbarians.’ The implication
is that Rome has now become Christian, and it finally has nothing in common
with barbarians. Consequently, those who still remain pagans are barbarians, not
proper Romans.8

6. Perkins 2009, 28–​32, 177–​180. See Jacobs 2003, 9, 22–​23 on postcolonial analyses of imperial and colonial
discourses.
7. CTh 16.2.16 (in 361): magis religionibus quam officiis et labore corporis vel sudore nostram rem publicam
contineri. Pharr 1952, 443 translates religiones as ‘religion’.
8. Ambr. ep. 73.7 (=ep. 18 Maur.) (CSEL 82.3). Trans. Liebeschuetz 2005, 83. Ambrose’s aim was to embarrass
the aristocratic Roman pagans (such as Symmachus himself) by connecting them with barbarians.
 1

The emperor and the dissenters

A s was pointed out in the introduction, the fourth-​century
Roman emperors adopted an ever more autocratic style of government and, con-
sequently, more autocratic discourse. The harsh-​sounding rhetoric in imperial
legislation was meant not only to manifest imperial power, but also to formulate
and enhance it. This change, sometimes depicted by the term ‘coercive turn’, is
apparent especially in the imperial rhetoric against religious dissident groups.
As we will see, however, imperial power was not inevitably stable. It had to be
continuously negotiated and legitimated at every level of government. In par-
ticular, imperial power had to be legitimised on three levels. First, it needed to
conform to established conventions. Second, these conventions had to be vali-
dated by appealing to beliefs and values shared by both those in domination and
subordinates. And third, specific power relations had to be reinforced by those in
subordinate positions showing some kind of consent to it.1 The emperor had to
ensure the collaboration of the local upper classes in the cities and provinces, in-
cluding the ecclesiastical elite. Unpopular imperial policies could easily lose their
force in the silent ‘go-​slow’ resistance.2 Furthermore, the emperor was expected
to act with a certain code of civil kindness (civilitas, clementia, philanthropia).
He was a monarch with absolute power and the air of divinity, but he was still
expected to rule with civility and take into account a supposed consensus of sub-
jects. Thus, even though the ancient discussions lacked such modern concepts as
‘human rights’, writers continuously evaluated the conduct and action of those in
power and distinguished between malicious tyrants and civilized rulers.3

The rhetoric of public welfare and divine peace

Imperial authority was reinforced with the rhetoric of public welfare. The order
and welfare of the empire, and even the whole of humankind, was based, it
was claimed, on the maintenance of good relations with the divine (pax deo-
rum, pax Dei). The emperors represented themselves as the guardians of these

1. For legitimacy as a multidimensional concept, see Beetham 1991, 15–​16.

2. Brown 1992, 3, 23. Here Brown compares the later Roman Empire with modern colonial regimes.
3. Lenski 2002, 211–​212; Gaddis 2005, 17–​18. On the long tradition of Hellenistic treatises on rulers as
philosopher-​kings, see Brown 1992, 9.

Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity, 350–450. Maijastina Kahlos. Oxford University Press (2020).
© Oxford University Press.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190067250.001.0001
18 Imperial and ecclesiastical authority

proper relations on behalf of the community. It was the main responsibility of

the emperor to preserve the benevolence of the divine forces towards the com-
monwealth. We could speak of the maintenance of public security or ‘national
security’, for although these terms are anachronistic, they show that we should
not take the maintenance of good relations with the divine in Graeco-​Roman
and Christian Antiquity as only a religious issue. The traditional civic religio—​the
proper observance of the cults of the gods—​was considered the basis of the sta-
bility, morality, and well-​being of the empire. Order and welfare were articulated
with the term pax deorum (the peace of the gods), which included peace and har-
mony in society as well as in the universe. Participation in civic religious life was
connected with loyalty to the emperor. During the imperial period, the personal
health of the emperor (salus Augusti) came to be connected with public wel-
fare. In earlier Roman thought, religious adherence in this sense had not been a
matter of belief, but of loyalty. A similar pattern of thought—​mutatis mutandis—​
is found in the legislation of Christian emperors (e.g., Theodosius I, Honorius,
Arcadius, Theodosius II) in which the position of the Christian ‘orthodoxy’ was
reinforced.4
Religious unity and the correct form of religion were presented as a matter of
state security, and the emperor was put forth as the guardian of the correct reli-
gion in the proclamation of Theodosius II during the Nestorian controversy. Here
he announces that ‘the condition of our state’ depends on piety towards God, and
that ‘there is a close connection and affinity between the two’. Furthermore, he
says that these are in fact linked, and they develop each other through their mu-
tual progress. It is thus necessary to keep the condition of the empire free from
trouble and rivalry.5 In this case, the role of Theodosius II reminds us of the tra-
ditional role of the Roman emperor as the guardian of pax deorum. In another
announcement, Theodosius II identifies dissensions and rivalries as the principal
cause for ‘the present misfortunes’, such that all the affairs of the empire would
be improved when the members of the church and the correct faith are united.6
Loyalty was also shown to the Christian emperor in religious terms. Even though
the emperor could not be venerated as a divine being as before, he was nonethe-
less a holy being who was the essential link to the divine sphere on behalf of the
empire. As Raymond Van Dam shows, thinking about the divine and thinking
about emperors overlapped in vocabulary and imagery. Religious ideas, pagan
and Christian alike, offered symbolic idioms for constructing and legitimating
imperial power; in turn, imperial representations provided symbolic idioms
for outlining and understanding the divine, meaning pagan gods as well as the
Christian deity. This intersection is perceivable in the shifting views of emperors

4. ‘National security’ is the term used in Drake 2008, 460; Drake 2011, 198.
5. Theodosius, Sacra ad Cyrillum et ad singulos metropolitas 3 (ACO 1.1.1, 114–​115); Festugière 1982, 173.
6. Theodosius, Sacra ad Symeonem Stylitam (ACO 1.1.4, 5); Festugière 1982, 471.
 The emperor and the dissenters 19

and their equal or subordinated co-​rulers vis-​à-​vis the varieties of Christian

interpretations of the relationship between the Father God and the Son God.7
The order and welfare of the empire was now based on pax Dei, the peace
of God. The ‘orthodoxy’ defined by emperors became the marker of loyalty to
the imperial power. As has often been stressed, the spheres of ‘political’ and ‘re-
ligious’, which in the modern (Western) world are separated, were intertwined
in the ancient world, including the Christian Roman Empire, in such a manner
that we should not take them as distinct entities. Simon Price remarks that the
conventional distinction between religion and politics tends to obscure their
similarity, as they are both ‘ways of systematically constructing power’.8 The
worldview based on divine favour and indignation was shared by Christians and
pagans alike. Consequently, the idea of public welfare predicated on good rela-
tions with the divine and the emperor’s responsibility for maintaining them were
recognized by all circles in the later Roman Empire: emperors themselves, their
propagandists, intellectuals, ecclesiastical leaders, all religious groups, and even
dissidents. The common concern was how to govern the empire in the correct
way to please the divine forces.9
How was the traditional rhetoric of public welfare used in relation to de-
viant religious groups? Those groups and individuals who did not conform to
the normative religious order supported by the emperors were represented as
threatening proper relations with the divine. As transgressors of the divine order,
dissident groups were thought to bring pollution upon their communities and
consequently draw down divine indignation and wrath on the whole of society.
Therefore, it was the duty of the emperors to regulate the religious life within the
empire and avoid (at any cost) the divine indignation that religious transgressors
might invoke. This avoidance of divine anger justified the coercion of deviant re-
ligious groups.10 At stake were public welfare and security.11 Dissident individuals
and deviant groups could be regarded as saboteurs of that security. Those who
did not act, believe, or formulate their doctrine in accord with the emperors were
not loyal subjects and properly Roman. They did not belong to the empire and
they were not oikeioi—​they were alieni and allotrioi.

7. See Van Dam 2007b, 226–​227, 251–​267, 346–​347 on how the making of Christian theology overlapped
with the making of new political philosophy. Theodosius I, for example, supported the Nicene doctrine, according
to which the Father and the Son were coordinate, while at the same time, he and his son Arcadius were represented
as co-​equal senior emperors.
8. Price 1984, 247.
9. Elm 2012, 480–​481. For example, concern for the appropriate comprehension of the divine connected with
the welfare of the empire was shared by Gregory of Nazianzus and Emperor Julian: see Elm 2012, 11, 265, 300.
10. The divine indignation towards deviant religious groups was used by the pagan Tetrarchs as well as the late
fourth-​and early fifth-​century Christian emperors; see Digeser 2006, 73–​74.
11. For citing the good of the community as a justification of religious oppression, see Kahlos 2009, 34–​35,
121–​123. In particular, medical analogies were used to validate religious coercion: the community had to be cured
of the diseases of undesirable religious inclinations.
20 Imperial and ecclesiastical authority

In the Christian Empire, Christianity was considered the instrument that pro-
tected and saved the oikoumene. It was the responsibility of the emperor as the
vice-​regent of God on earth to guarantee the correct interpretation of the nature
of God.12 Thus, the fate of the imperial power and the empire was intrinsically
linked with the unity and harmony of Christianity. This is why the definition of
the doctrine became so imperative in the fourth and fifth centuries. This connec-
tion between the welfare of the state and correct Christian doctrine is highlighted
in the sixth-​century legislation of Justinian. He declared that the security of the
empire was guaranteed not by arms, soldiers, military leaders, or imperial intel-
lect, but only by the providence of the supreme Trinity.13
The concern of the Christian emperors and their entourage was as a con-
tinuation of the age-​old Roman tradition in which it was precisely the public
religion (religio) that was dutifully performed to maintain the security and pros-
perity of the empire. Correspondingly, divine anger could be provoked by reli-
gious misbehaviour or neglect (religio neglecta), and natural catastrophes and all
kinds of disasters resulted from the indignation of divine forces. Religious mis-
behaviour involved impiety towards the gods (asebeia, impietas), but it was also
regarded as a transgression against the state.14 In the second and third centuries,
the Christians had occasionally been accused of bringing misfortunes down on
the community.15 Christian replies relied on the same mental framework as the
accusations. Christian writers usually flipped the charges back on pagans, argu-
ing that it was the pagans who drew the divine indignation. As the connection
between religious misbehaviour and divine retribution in the form of calamities
had been raised vis-​à-​vis deviant groups, such as Christians and Manichaeans
in the reign of the Tetrarchs, the thought pattern was shared by pagans and
Christians alike.16 The correlation between the welfare of the empire and divine
favour achieved by the proper conduct of religion was still central in the procla-
mations of Constantine and his successors. The letter of Licinius and Constantine
(the so-​called Edict of Milan) set as the aim of the emperors the well-​being and
public security of the empire and the profit of humans, and it spoke of the di-
vinity ‘in the seat of heaven’ who is ‘appeased and made propitious’. The ‘habitual

12. See esp. Elm 2012, 264, 373.

13. CIust 1.17.1 praef. (in 530).
14. Cicero explicated the idea that Rome had attained its greatness by scrupulously fulfilling religious duties
(nat. deor. 2.7–​8, 3.94). On neglect of the gods causing defeat in battle, see, e.g., Liv. 22.9.7–​11; Cic. nat. deor. 2.8.
Heck 1987, 30–​37, 182; Scheid 1985, 29–​32; Liebeschuetz 1979, 56–​57, 92; North 2010, 44.
15. Accusations are reported in Tert. apol. 40.1–​2; nat. 1.9; Cypr. Demetr. 1–​2; Arnob. nat. 1.1, 1.9, 3.11, 4.24;
Aug. civ. 2.3.
16. Most of the early fourth-​century accusations by pagans against Christians were conveyed by Christian
writers such as Arnobius and Lactantius. However, one proclamation of Emperor Maximinus Daia in 312 against
Christians is extant both in Eus. eccl. 9.7.3–​14 and as fragments in CIL III 12132; see Mitchell 1988, 105–​124.
Moreover, the idea of divine favour and anger is not limited to Graeco-​Roman and Christian Antiquity, but also
found in other cultures and societies. For the ‘logic of retribution’ (e.g., in the works of ecclesiastical historians), see
Trompf 2000, 230–​231. See Scribner 1996, 43 on the ‘moralized universe’, in which the state of affairs in this world
is dependent on the moral quality of humans, whether as individuals or as a collective.
 The emperor and the dissenters 21

favour and benevolence’ of the divinity were said to be maintained when no one
is denied freedom of religion.17
A similar connection was postulated in fourth-​and fifth-​century imperial
legislation, specifically in terms of the contamination that incorrect religious
behaviour was thought to bring upon the community and the entire empire. In a
law instituted by Theodosius II in 425, the presence of religious dissidents is sup-
posed to cause pollution in the cities where they live:

Because, of course, it is unseemly that religious people should be de-

praved by any superstitions, we command that the Manichaeans and all
other heretics, whether schismatics or astrologers, and every sect that is
inimical to the Catholics shall be banished from the very sight of the var-
ious cities, in order that such cities may not be defiled by the contagion
even of the presence of such criminals (praesentiae quidem criminosorum
contagione).18

In another law from 438, the traditional cycle of cause and effect is turned against
pagans. Theodosius II attributes abnormalities in nature—​the succession of the
seasons has been disturbed—​to pagan perfidy. Thus, spring is not as lovely as
usual, summer is barren of its harvest, and winter is unexceptionally harsh and
has doomed the land with disastrous sterility. The conclusion is that nature must
be punishing impiety in its own manner, and the emperor states that the revered
majesty of the supreme deity must be placated.19 In a number of laws, public wel-
fare and the unity of the church were identified with each other. For example, in a
decree from 409, the public well-​being (salus communis), meaning the well-​being
of the empire, is linked with the benefit of the church (pro utilitatibus catholicae
sacrosanctae ecclesiae).20
The emperors were also reminded of the connection between public wel-
fare and the correct interpretation of religion. The leaders of divergent inclina-
tions stressed this connection for their own purposes. In his campaign against
Homoian Christianity (Arianism), Ambrose adopted the idea of divine retribu-
tion. In On Faith, he explained military defeats, especially the one at Adrianople
in 378, as God’s punishment for Emperor Valens’s ‘Arianism’. He stated that the
‘reason for the divine indignation’ is evident: faith (fides) in the Roman power
has been broken where faith in God has been broken. Furthermore, Ambrose
linked religious dissidence and barbarian attacks, associating the ‘sacrilegious
voices’ [of ‘heretics’] with the ‘barbarian attacks’ (sacrilegis pariter vocibus et bar-
baricis motibus). He exclaimed, ‘How can the Roman state be secure with such

17. See Lact. mort. 48.2; see also Eus. eccl. 10.5. Kahlos 2009, 56–​58 with further bibliography.
18. Sirm. 6 (in 425). Trans. Pharr 1952, 480. Here the legislator links Manichaeans, heretics, and schismatics
together with the mathematici (astrologers).
19. Novellae of Theodosius II, 3.8 (in 438). Noethlichs 1998, 17; Millar 2006, 121, 224–​225.
20. CTh 16.5.47 (in 409). On heresy as linked with the issue of public welfare, see Humfress 2000, 129–​131.
22 Imperial and ecclesiastical authority

custodians?’21 Here Ambrose articulates the familiar idea of the emperor as the
guardian not only of the commonwealth, but also of the correct religion.
During the Nestorian controversy, Cyril of Alexandria, when urging
Theodosius II to turn against Nestorius, associated imperial power with the cor-
rect doctrine. Cyril insisted that those rulers who did not take care of the true
faith would perish. Consequently, disagreement within the church was perceived
as a threat to the stability of imperial power.22 The logic of retribution and reward
is also apparent in Cyril’s rhetoric in his letters to the imperial ladies, the Empress
Aelia Eudocia and the emperor’s sister Pulcheria, respectively. He assures them
if they confess the correct doctrine (Cyril’s version, obviously), they will enjoy
strong blessings: ‘For if Christ thus finds that your faith is steadfast and pure,
he will honour you abundantly with good things from above, and you will be
fully blessed.’23 Cyril was not alone in linking the unity of the church with impe-
rial success in accordance with the logic of divine reward and retribution. It was
rumoured that his rival Nestorius had promised to Theodosius II that if the em-
peror gave him ‘the earth cleansed of heretics’, he would give the emperor ‘heaven
in return’. Nestorius was alleged to have declared, ‘Help me in destroying heretics
and I will help you in defeating the Persians.’24
As previously mentioned, the idea of divine favour and anger was common-
place among both Christians and non-​Christians. In his famous appeal for the
continuation of public support for the old Roman religion, Symmachus based his
argumentation on the utility of the traditional Roman religion in guaranteeing
the public welfare. Correspondingly, he argued, the neglect of Roman religion
by Christians led to drought, failure of crops, and famine.25 In a similar vein,
Libanius, in his speech for the temples, attributed the success and security of the
empire to the favour of the old gods, which was maintained by the traditional
cults.26 The question was, which religion—​Christianity or the traditional Roman
religion—​could guarantee divine support for the well-​being of Rome. Similar

21. Ambr. fid. 2.16.139–​140. Cf. Oros. hist. 7.33.9, 7.33.19: iusto iudicio Dei; Theodoret. eccl. 4.30–​31. For the
circumstances concerning Ambrose’s De fide, see McLynn 1994, 102–​105, 120–​121; Lenski 1997, 149–​150; Lenski
2002, 213; and Alan Cameron 2011, 35–​36.
22. Cyr. Alex. or. ad Theod. imp. (ACO 1.1.1, 43–​44). For the contest for imperial support during the Nestorian
controversy, see Wessel 2004, 90; Millar 2006, 36; Kahlos 2014, 1–​32.
23. Cyr. Alex. or. ad Augustas 48 (ACO 1.1.5, 61). For Cyril’s letters to the imperial women, see Millar 2006, 36;
Wessel 2004, 98–​99; Graumann 2002, 323–​333; Holum 1982, 159–​161.
24. The rumours are found in Socr. eccl. 7.29. A similar combination of promise and threat is reported by
Sozomen (eccl. 6.40.1): the monk Isaac asserted to Valens, who was the keen supporter of Homoian Christians, ‘But
you will not return [from Adrianople] if you do not restore the [Nicene] churches.’
25. Utility: Symm. rel. 3.2–​3, 3.8, 3.11 (in 384). On the failure of crops, see Symm. rel. 3.15–​17. Ambrose, who
in his own attack against ‘Arians’ had applied the idea of divine retribution, in his reply to Symmachus (Ambr.
ep. 73.7 =ep. 17 Maur.) refuted Symmachus’s charges by attributing the successes and failures to humans, not to
the divine sphere (i.e., it was the strength of the Roman soldiers that made the empire successful, not the gods),
as well as by attributing the failure of crops to the natural sphere (Ambr. ep. 72.20–​21, 72.30 =ep. 18 Maur.). For
Symmachus’s relatio and the responses to it, see Klein 1971; Klein 1972; Demandt 1972; Döpp 2009; Alan Cameron
2011, 337–​343.
26. Liban. or. 30.31, 30.34, also 30.4–​5. For Libanius’ speech, see Criscuolo 1995; Sizgorich 2007, 75–​101.
 The emperor and the dissenters 23

arguments continued to be presented at the turn of the fifth century in connec-

tion with ill-​fated events during the Gothic wars, and especially the sack of Rome
in 410, as shown by the discussions on calamities in Augustine’s City of God,
Orosius’s Histories against Pagans, and a few other works.27 Augustine informs
us of the statements of pagans, according to which Radagaisus, the leader of a
Gothic group, had defeated the Romans because he had performed sacrifices to
the gods but the Romans had not. For his part, Augustine refutes these charges
and argues instead that the barbarian attacks were God’s punishment for the
Romans.28
The fictive conversation in the anonymous early fifth-​ century treatise
Questions and Answers to the Orthodox seems to arise from a similar discussion
on divine favour. The writer is asked whether Hellenism (that is, the cults of the
old gods) is more pious because all the towns and the country enjoyed wealth and
well-​being and did not suffer from warfare as long as Hellenism was practised,
but there were great losses after Christianity replaced Hellenism. In his response,
the writer offers a set of different refutations: first, he denies that the old gods had
any influence, because towns and countries had been devastated even in the pe-
riod when Hellenism prevailed. Second, he notes that divine providence governs
the world as it wishes, sending prosperity and desolation as deemed appropriate.
Third, in spite of these former explanations, the writer draws on the idea of divine
favour by maintaining that no city has fallen since the triumph of Christianity
and that there have been fewer wars in the world since that point than before.29
Consequently, the argument of divine favour and anger was not of minor im-
portance when used as a weapon against a rival religion. In a world in which most
of the population was involved in agricultural work, well-​being and even survival
depended on the balance of natural forces.30 Thus, the idea that the correct wor-
ship of divinities was the basis of the well-​being of the community was not a mere
rhetorical device against opponents. As Susanna Elm explains, to ‘misread the
divine will could spell disaster for all, even small theological differences could

27. The sixth-​century pagan historian Zosimus (5.40–​41) and the fifth-​century church historian Sozomen
(eccl. 9.6–​7) refer to the demands that were made for the revival of traditional cult practices during the Gothic inva-
sion of Italy in 408. Both writers seem to follow Olympiodorus’s lost account. O’Daly 1994, 65–​75; Burgarella 1995,
190; Salzman 2010, 260; Alan Cameron 2011, 190–​191.
28. Aug. civ. 5.23. By means of the barbarian assaults, God flogged (flagellavit) Romans and demonstrated that
sacrifices to the old gods were useless, even in securing earthly well-​being.
29. Pseudo-​Justin, Quaestiones et responsiones ad orthodoxos 126 (PG 6). This work was earlier falsely assigned
to Justin the Martyr, but later it was attributed either to Diodore of Tarsus or Theodoret of Cyrrhus. Papadoyannakis
2008, 115–​127 sets the provenance of the work in early fifth-​century Syria. The bitter voices of pagans are heard
as late as the sixth century in the complaints of Zosimus (4.59, also 1.57.1, 2.33.4, 3.32.1, 4.21.3), who blamed the
calamities of the empire on neglect of the traditional cults.
30. This concern is echoed in the narrative of Life of Porphyry: as soon as the bishop Porphyry arrives in Gaza,
the people begin to blame the drought at that time on his presence: Marc. Diac. v. Porph. 19 Kugener. Even though
the work most likely does not date from the period it purports to depict, it reflects the contemporary ways of attrib-
uting natural calamities to the incorrect religion of rivals. For a discussion on the dating, see Grégoire and Kugener
1930, vii–​xxix; Barnes 2010, 260–​283.
24 Imperial and ecclesiastical authority

have significant impact, if misunderstood by those who ruled the empire, the
emperor and the elites’. In the fourth century, it was the nature of the divinity
that was at the centre of disputes.31 When security and order were disturbed by
natural disasters, disease, war, and upheavals, divine forces needed to be placated
to restore normality. Wielded by the majority, the idea became a powerful form
of ammunition against the dissident minorities. Many Christian writers, such as
Orosius and Salvian of Marseilles, nonetheless also ascribed misfortunes and the
divine anger behind them to the sinfulness of the whole community, not only the
deviants of the community. Calamities were argued as being divine retribution
meant for chastisement and the cure of sins.32
The old Roman idea of pax deorum and its late antique variant, the Christian
logic of divine reward and retribution, were usually connected with the demand
of correct religious behaviour and/​or belief within the community. The idea
of religious misconduct drawing divine anger down on the whole community
could be wielded against religious dissidents. As Michael Gaddis suggests, this
worldview created the preconditions for official intolerance.33 For example, in his
Cunctos populos edict, Theodosius I threatened heretics (in this case, Homoians
were the principal target) with both divine vengeance and ‘the retribution of our
own initiative, which we shall assume in accordance with divine judgment’.34 The
connection of religious deviance with divine wrath indeed was a powerful argu-
ment in imperial legislation against pagans and heretics.

Imperial striving for unity

In the context of divine anger and favour, the requirement for unity—​not only
in what we call the political sphere, but also the religious one—​becomes under-
standable. The unity of correct religious behaviour, cult, and belief was neces-
sary for maintaining balance, both on the cosmic level and in mundane affairs.
It was argued that good governance safeguarded this unity. Even during the
early imperial period, which was well known for its diversity of religions—​or
the ‘market-​place of religions’, as it has been called—​the emperors attempted to
control religious life with various restrictions. The imperial government was es-
pecially concerned with private practices, such as private divination. With their
regulations and restrictions, the fourth-​century Christian emperors followed the
models of policy established by their predecessors in the early imperial period

31. Elm 2012, 2. Furthermore, cosmic, communal, and individual salvation and public order were intertwined;
see Lyman 2000, 151.
32. E.g., Oros. hist. 2.1.1, 7.15.5; Salv. gub. 6.2, 6.6, 6.11, 8.2. Basil. Caes. Quod deus non est auctor malorum 5
(PG 21, 377C) argued that disease, droughts, and dearth were the testing of Christians. For further discussion, see
Kahlos 2013a, 177–​193; for Salvian, see Lambert 1999, 115–​130.
33. Gaddis 2005, 34.
34. CTh 16.1.2.1 (in 380). Trans. Pharr 1952, 440.
 The emperor and the dissenters 25

(for example, by regulating private practices).35 In the third and fourth centuries,
there was an increasing tendency in the imperial policies to control religious ac-
tivities. This striving for harmony in matters of religion was often linked with
concurrent attempts to enhance the unity of the empire.36 In the recent research,
this imperial emphasis on universalizing religion has been interpreted as a re-
sponse to ideas that had already changed rather than as top-​down impulses of in-
dividual emperors. Thus, imperial policies are now understood more as reflecting
shifts in religion and society in general.37
In the fourth century, Christianity and the Roman Empire were both trans-
formed and developed side by side as competing but also overlapping universal-
isms.38 The unity of the empire was thought to be reinforced by the unity of cult
and belief. In addition to control of rituals and practices, this meant attempts to
regulate beliefs—​namely, striving for ‘the imperial monopoly on knowledge’.39
This can be seen in the proclamations in which Constantine acknowledged re-
ligious unity as his principal goals (for example, his wish ‘to unite all the opin-
ions of the divine of the nations in a single consistent view’). This is justified
with the concord (homonoia) among God’s servants that brings tranquillity and
well-​being. Thus, religious unity, ‘one united judgment about the divine’, was pos-
tulated to provide welfare to the empire.40 Unity and the correct doctrine (ortho-
doxy) became a matter of public safety. Constantine highlighted public safety in
the heat of the controversy between the mainstream (Caecilianist) church and
the Donatists, stating that ‘the legally adopted and observed religion guaran-
tees the welfare of the state and brings happiness to all human undertakings’.
Correspondingly, he inferred, if religion is neglected, the state is in great danger.41

35. On continuities in the attitudes of the Roman elite towards private practices, see Hunt 1993, 143–​158;
Martroye 1930, 669–​701; Kahlos 2013b, 313–​344.
36. In the third century, this striving for unity is apparent in the attempts to unify the empire by Emperors
Decius, Valerius, and Diocletian and his co-​rulers. For the third-​and fourth-​century attempts at unity by imperial
governments, see Rives 1999, 135–​154; Kahlos 2009, 28–​38, 56–​66; and Van Dam 2007b, 272, 281 on Constantine’s
obsession with political and religious unity. Athanassiadi 2010, 15–​16 sees Decius’s policy, as well as Julian’s, as an
important phase in the development towards theocracy and monodoxy. There were similar attempts to enhance
politico-​religious unity in the Persian Empire during the same period: Fowden 1993, 80–​168.
37. Salzman 2008, 186, 189–​190 calls the traditional narrative, in which the emperor is seen as the initiator of
(political, social, or religious) change, a ‘top-​down political conflict model’. For the criticism of the top-​down model,
see also Salzman 2002, xi–​xii, 5; Salzman 2007, 210; Elizabeth A. Clark 2004, 183.
38. On Christianity and the Roman Empire as ‘two powerful, enduring and competing visions of universalism
in the fourth century’, see Elm 2012, 1–​10.
39. Fögen 1993, 254–​321; also Baudy 2006, 112; Humfress 2000, 130–​131.
40. Constantine’s letter to Bishop Alexander of Alexandria and Arius in 324 in Eus. v. Const. 2.64–​72,
esp. 2.65.1–​2. Trans. Averil Cameron and S. G. Hall 1999, 43–​44. Constantine also stressed religious unity in his
inaugural speech in the Council of Nicaea: in Eus. v. Const. 3.12. Constantine appealed to religious unity mainly
in his dealings with Christian dissident groups (rather than with non-​Christians), in his decree against Christian
dissidents, prohibiting their meetings and confiscating the property and churches for the ‘catholic’ church, in Eus.
v. Const. 3.64–​65. Barnes 1981, 224; Norderval 1995, 95–​115; Drake 1996, 30 n. 51; Drake 2000, 346–​348; S. G. Hall
1986, 5–​7.
41. Constantine’s letter to Anulinus in Eus. eccl. 10.7.1–​2. For Constantine’s policies in the Donatist strife, see
Drake 2000, 212–​231; Lenski 2016, 102–​135; Tilley 1996, xi–​xvi; and Frend 1952, 159–​163.
26 Imperial and ecclesiastical authority

During the overlapping reigns of Gratian, Valentinian II, and Theodosius

I, religious unity was announced as the indisputable aim of the emperors.
Consequently, the very presence of religious dissident groups was taken as an
offense to Christian unity and the emperors. The imperial striving for unity cul-
minated in the legislation of Theodosius I and continued in the fifth century in
the legislation of his successors Honorius, Arcadius, and Theodosius II. These
emperors defined a single understanding of the one religion, Nicene Christianity,
while condemning other interpretations. Nicene Christianity came to be linked
with loyalty to the empire and the emperors, and thus with being a good Roman.
Other religious inclinations (‘heresies’ and ‘paganism’) were associated with dis-
sidence and disloyalty. In the proclamation of 407, Honorius and Theodosius II
spoke of ‘the catholic faith and rites, which We wish to be observed by all humans’.
Through this legislation, the emperors set themselves up as the guardians of the
true religion, announcing that the law was being given ‘to the advantage of true
worship’.42 The unity of religion and the unity of the empire were accordingly seen
as correlative with each other.

42. CTh 16.5.41 (in 407): catholicam fidem et ritum, quem per omnes homines cupimus observari. This law
announced the annulment of punishments if heretics, especially Donatists and Manichaeans, embraced ‘catholic’
Christianity. Hunt 1993, 148.
 2

The realities of legislation

T
he fourth-​century emperors represented religious unity,
and especially the Christian unity of the empire, as a goal to be pursued in order
to ensure public welfare and state security. That said, we should avoid falling
into the trap of teleology by postulating—​throughout the entire fourth century
until the beginning of the fifth century—​a coherent or systematic policy against
those who with their very existence challenged the ideals of religious unity. There
was no imperial programme of efficient and organized coercive legislation from
Constantine until Theodosius II and beyond. Instead, there seems to have been
a great deal of incoherence and ambivalence.1 Even during the reign of a single
emperor, Theodosius I, which a number of ecclesiastical writers afterwards
constructed as the conclusive triumph of Christianity, and which even modern
researchers have identified as a decisive period of increasing pressure against
dissidents, we can discern different and often mutually contradictory decisions
and compromises.2 Instead of reflecting coherence and consistency in legislation,
imperial rulings are better understood when the imperial decision-​making is
observed in terms of ongoing negotiations between the central government and
numerous groups of interest, such as the leaders of different Christian sects, local
aristocracies, and military circles. Recent research on late antique legislation
has stressed that imperial laws and proclamations reflect extensive negotiations,
which were going on at every level of government.3 Furthermore, intense law-​
making does not necessarily mean that laws were implemented. Legislative texts
were normative: they decreed that certain things should proceed this or that way
and that certain actions are not allowed. Legislation often reveals the ideology
and aims of the administration rather than the way in which laws were really
interpreted, enforced, and obeyed in everyday life.4 Another problem is that of
authenticity. Compiled in the 430s, the Theodosian Code contains fourth-​century
laws that are not in their original form, but versions that are usually abridged.

1. Salzman 1993, 362–​378.

2. On the figure of Theodosius I constructed in accordance with the great narrative of the Christian triumph
over paganism, see Errington 1997a, 398–​443.
3. On the late antique processes of law-​making, see Harries 1999 and Matthews 2000.
4. As A. H. M. Jones 1964, viii states, ‘the laws . . . are clues to the difficulties of the empire, and records of the
aspirations of the government and not its achievement’. See also Humfress 2007a, 121–​142; Salzman 2008, 197.

Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity, 350–450. Maijastina Kahlos. Oxford University Press (2020).
© Oxford University Press.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190067250.001.0001
28 Imperial and ecclesiastical authority

Sound and fury

Legislation in Roman society had a different function than legislation has today: it
represented ideology and served as propaganda; it was full of moral proclama-
tions; and its language was strong, moralizing, and highly rhetorical. In the fourth
century, legislation reflected the increasingly autocratic governmental style that
the emperors had adopted. Late antique legislation, which not only concerned
cult activities and religious groups, but also other issues, was articulated in un-
compromising and moralizing language. Religious groups were condemned with
harsh, insulting terms such as superstitio, error, perfidia, perversitas, and vesania.5
Laws described the ‘pagan criminal mind’ (sceleratae mentis paganae); damnable,
accursed, and abominable sacrifices; and the insanity of sacrifices.6 To give one
example, in a decree from 348 against pagans, the legislator uses such phrases as
‘their heathen enormities’, ‘their natural insanity and stubborn insolence’, ‘the ne-
farious rites of their sacrifices and the false doctrines of their deadly superstition’,
‘their crimes’, ‘their mass of crimes’, ‘the corruption of their sacrifices’, ‘audacious
madness’, ‘these impious persons’, ‘their pagan madness’, and ‘any person of pol-
luted and contaminated mind’.7
Not sounding politically correct to the ears of a modern observer, this reprov-
ing language reminds us more of contemporary hate speech on the Internet than
the neutral tone of legislative texts that people today are accustomed to. However,
as David Moncur and Peter Heather point out, we need to make a distinction
between how things were articulated and what was actually ordered. Emperors
tried to strike a balance between gratifying rigoristic Christians and maintain-
ing social equilibrium between different interest groups. Despite their severely
worded directives and threats, laws were not necessarily always meant for uni-
versal application.8
The highly coloured, morally charged language of the legislation implies an
efficient autocracy and severe imperial authority. It was used not only to describe
imperial power, but also—​first and foremost—​to create it. Emperors needed to
send an authoritative message to their subjects on the maintenance of morality,
social order, and discipline, as well as state security. The same applied to impe-
rial legislation in general, not only to the laws that disciplined religious dissident
groups. Emperors needed to convince rigorist Christian circles that Christian
unity was intensely pursued by means of strict laws, and to reassure them with

5. CTh 16.5.51 (in 410): haereticae superstitionis. CTh 16.8.19 (in 409) calls Judaism superstitio, perversitas, and
incredulitas; cf. 16.8.24 (in 418): superstitio and perversitas; 16.9.4 (in 417): superstitio. CTh 16.5.63 (in 425): Omnes
haereses omnesque perfidias, omnia schismata superstitionesque gentilium, omnes catholicae legi inimicos insectamur
errores; 16.10.20 (in 415): pagana superstitio; 16.10.7 (in 381): vesanus ac sacrilegus.
6. E.g. CTh 16.10.25 (in 435), 16.10.23 (in 423), 16.10.13 (in 395), 16.10.2 (in 341).
7. Novellae of Theodosius II, 3.8 (in 348).
8. On paying lip service to rigorist circles, see Heather and Moncur 2001, 48–​60. On emperors balancing be-
tween different religious interests, see Lee 2000, 94; O’Donnell 1979, 59–​60.
 The realities of legislation 29

triumphalist assertions of the demise of paganism.9 Consequently, we should

read many of these late antique laws as moral proclamations rather than practical
enactments. This is particularly apparent in those laws whose main concern was
to control the behaviour of public figures, such as iudices (judges and provincial
governors) and the personnel under their authority.10 Such showing off probably
was not even meant for actual execution.
The imperial language of condemnation nonetheless set pretexts and possibil-
ities for action and enactment if bishops or magistrates at the local level decided
to proceed in that way. Language is used not only to describe reality, but also to
create it. This can be seen in the creation of categories and the adaptation of old
categories of illegal practices and beliefs in late antique legislation. Categories
such as illegal sacrifices, nefarious practices, superstition, and magic, which
had been used in earlier legislation, were adapted for Christian use. As Caroline
Humfress points out, efforts to maintain proper relations between the empire and
the divine sphere were still the focus of late antique legislation. Consequently,
what changed were definitions and the interpretations of which cultic practices
were regarded as licit and which were illicit. The most significant shift after the
Constantinian turn was the idea that there was wrong religious belief (and actions
resulting from that) that could be regarded as a crime under Roman law.11
The illegal practices mentioned in laws could be interpreted in various ways,
depending on the preferences of local governors. For example, in the decree of
381, illegal sacrifices performed by day and night could be understood as animal
sacrifices in general, sacrifices linked with illegal private divination or sacrifices
connected to illegal magical practices. Moreover, dire incantations (diris carmin-
ibus), in contrast to chaste prayers (castis deum precibus), could be understood
as pagan practices or magical spells. Thus, it was possible to use this law against
magical practices as well as traditional Graeco-​Roman cults, according to the
inclinations of local administrators. As Michele Salzman shows, laws that for-
bade superstition (superstitio) could be interpreted as banning either pagan prac-
tices in general (depending on which practices were regarded as pagan), animal
sacrifices in general, or magical practices (again, depending on which practices
were deemed magical).12

9. CTh 16.10.22 (in 423), 16.10.25 (in 435), 16.10.19 (in 407). Veyne 1981, 355; Bradbury 1994, 134–​137; and
Drake 2011, 211 draw attention to the disciplinary nature of the late antique legislation meant to educate people by
exhortation, condemnation, and threats.
10. CTh 16.10.10 (in 391) on iudices. Hunt 1993, 157 points out that the Theodosian laws against paganism ap-
pear comprehensive in terms of their prohibition of pagan practices, but they were actually directed at the provincial
administration.
11. For a discussion of the changes, see Humfress 2007b, 234–​235; Humfress 2016, 160–​176. This shift in the
legal thinking was possible only after Constantine had integrated Christianity into the legal framework.
12. CTh 16.10.7 (in 381). Similarly, CTh 16.10.9 (in 385) forbade the performance of sacrifices for divination.
Salzman 1987, 177–​183.
30 Imperial and ecclesiastical authority

From the discussion above, it becomes clear that the existence of harsh leg-
islation does not necessarily imply that laws were widely obeyed. The prohibi-
tions were renewed again and again, and punishments became more severe. It
must also be remembered that enforcement of laws often depended on regional
circumstances and the initiatives of local leaders such as bishops. It has been
surmised that the repetition of laws (e.g., banning sacrifices) implies widespread
disobedience at the local level.13 This is certainly true in many cases, although we
must bear in mind that the repetition was also part of imperial procedures. When
assuming the throne, a new emperor had to proclaim his power and either renew
or cancel the legislation of his predecessors.

Good citizens and infamous dissenters

Christian orthodoxy and Roman citizenship were equated in late antique leg-
islation. This pattern of thought, in which being a good citizen or loyal subject
was delineated in terms of correct religion, had a long tradition and from time
to time showed up in imperial announcements. Communities in Graeco-​Roman
antiquity had habitually defined themselves through religion and its correct per-
formance. During the Republican and early imperial periods, a proper Roman
was suitably pious, performing rituals and worshipping the gods in the correct
manner, such as through participation in sacrificial rituals (as performers or
spectators).14 Defining Romanness in religious terms became an even more im-
portant part of political debate from the early third century onwards.15
This tendency to delineate a proper Roman in terms of religion continued in
the Christian Empire. The criteria for being a good Roman gradually changed,
but the principle persisted. In the imperial proclamations of the late fourth and
fifth centuries, a Roman was redefined as being a Christian and, moreover, the
right kind of Christian. In the legislation from Gratian and Theodosius I onwards,
that meant being a Nicene Christian. Practising devotions other than imperial
Christianity (now Nicene) was argued to be one of the gravest transgressions
against the state and the emperor, and according to some texts it led to falling
out of civilized—​Christian and Roman—​society. However, as already noted,
imperial decrees need to be taken more as moral proclamations than practical
instructions. Furthermore, imperial announcements such as the famous Cunctos
populos by Theodosius I in 380 were made in response to local circumstances.16

13. E.g., in CTh 16.10.12 (in 392). On reiteration, see Fowden 1998, 540; Bradbury 1994, 133; Hunt 1993,
143–​144; O’Donnell 1979, 59–​60.
14. Beard, North, and Price 1998, 239–​240; Gordon 1990, 253–​255.
15. The connection between the suitable way of performing religious duties and being Roman was accentuated
by Caracalla in 212, Decius in 249–​250, Valerian in 257–​258, and the Tetrarchs in 304. On the developments in the
third century, see Inglebert 2002, 241–​260; Digeser 2000; Digeser 2006, 69–​71; Rives 1999, 135–​154.
16. CTh 16.1.2. See also CTh 16.5.5 (in 379) and 16.5.4 (in 376/​378).
Another random document with
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 Mr. Stockman smiled genially and continued.

"In a word, fine chap that you are and a willing worker, with good
methods and worthy of my praise—which you've had—I'm going to get
along without you now, and so we'll part Monday month, if you please. And
delighted I shall be to give you a right down good character for honesty and
sound understanding—where the hosses are concerned."

Mr. Palk had not expected this. He was much bewildered.

"D'you mean it, master?" he asked, with eyes not devoid of alarm.

"I do, my dear. I never meant anything with a better appetite. A great
loss, because with one like me—old and stricken before my time, along of
working far too hard, which was a foolish fault in my generation—it was a
comforting thing to feel I'd got a hossman in you worthy of the name. You
be the pattern of a good, useful sort, that's dying out—worse luck. But when
you said you wasn't a nosey-poker, Thomas, you said wrong, I'm afraid; and
a meddlesome man, that has time to spare from the hosses for the women,
and thrusts in between parent and child, be very much against the grain with
me. And though, of course, you may be quite right, and know better how to
treat and cherish a grown-up daughter than a stupid creature like me—and
you a bachelor—yet even the worm will turn, Thomas. And, worm though I
am, I be going to venture to turn. You're great on the point of view; and so
will I be: and, from my point of view, I can see you haven't got enough
work to do in this little place. You must go in the world and find a bigger
and a harder job, that won't leave you time for other people's business,
which at best be a kicklish task and avoided by men of much wits as a rule."

"I meant well, master."

"And don't you always mean well? Why, you're the most well-meaning
man, after myself, I ever had the luck to meet, Thomas. But you've fixed a
gulf to-day, and I feel terrible sure we shan't suit each other no more. So
we'll part friends Monday month."

Joe spoke with far greater cordiality than when raising Mr. Palk's wages
six weeks before. He beamed graciously on Thomas and lighted his pipe
again.

"The talk be at an end now, because I mustn't strain my tubes," he said.

"And I'll beg you not to return to the subject. Both me and my God are very
well satisfied with the way I brought up Soosie-Toosie, and so's she; and if
she feels there's anything on this earth I can do for her, to make her home a
happier place, rest assured she'll ax me herself. She's my master-jewel and
always will be, though she'll never know all I've done for her, because no
child ever can know the heights and depths of a good father's love. 'A good
father,' mark me, Thomas."

"Monday month then, master?"

"If quite convenient to yourself."

Then Palk went out into storm and gathering dusk. The woods of
Buckland waved grey through the gloaming and rain swept them heavily.
The wind shouted over the granite crown of the Beacon; sheep and cattle
had crept down from the high land and stood in the shelter of walls and
woods.

Thomas considered with himself. He was in a state as perturbed as it

was possible for such a stolid spirit to be; but he remembered that the
innocent cause of this revolution was now returning heavy laden up the
long hill from the market town.

He decided that he would go and meet Susan. His upheaval took the
form of increased solicitude for Miss Stockman.

"She shall hear the fatal news from me—not him," he reflected.

He set off and presently sighted the woman tramping up the hill in the
rain. Under the wild weather and fading light, she looked like some large,
bedraggled moth blown roughly about. Her basket was full and her left arm
held a parcel in blue paper. It was the only spot of colour she offered. They
met, greatly to her surprise.
 "Good Lord!" she said. "Have father put more chores on you? Be you
going to Ashburton?"

"I am not," he answered. "I came out with my big umbrella to meet
you."

She was fluttered.

"How terrible kind! But 'tis no odds. I be bone-wet."

Nevertheless, Mr. Palk unfurled a large, faded, glass-green umbrella

over her.

"Give me the basket," he said, "and I'll walk betwixt you and the
weather. I come for more reasons than one, Susan. Something's happened
while you were to town and I'd sooner you heard it from me than him."

"Nought gone wrong with father?"

"That's for others to say. But something have gone parlous wrong with
me."

She started and hugged her blue paper parcel closer. It contained the
bottle of brown sherry.

"I hope not, I'm sure."

"In a word, I'm sorry to say I leave Falcon Farm Monday month. It have
fallen with a terrible rush upon me—and my own fault too. I can't tell you
the reason, but so it is. The master's sacked me; and every right to do so, no
doubt, in his own eyes."

Miss Stockman stood still and panted. Her face was wet with rain; her
hair touzled; her hat dripping.

"Be you saying truth?" she asked, and fetched a handkerchief from her
pocket and dried her face.
 "Gospel. I done a thing as he took in a very unkind spirit I'm sorry to
say."

The blue parcel trembled.

"Going—you? Never!"

"Monday month it have got to be."

"Why for? What have you gone and done? It must have been something
properly fearful, for he thought the world of you, behind your back."

"To my face, however, he did not—not this evening. And as to what I

done, I hope he won't feel called to name it in your ear. It was a very
dangerous task, as I reckoned when I started on it; but I felt drove—Lord
knows why! I meant well, but that don't amount to much when you fail. No
doubt he'll get somebody he likes better; and he won't withhold a good
character neither."

"This be a cruel come-along-of-it," she said blankly. "I couldn't have

heard nothing to trouble me more, Thomas. You was the bestest we've ever
had to Falcon Farm—and kindness alive."

"Thank you I'm sure. We've been very good friends. And why not?"

"I can't picture you gone. 'Twas a rit of temper. I'll speak to father."

"Don't you do that. There weren't no temper, nor yet language. He

meant it and he's an unchanging man."

"Whatever did he say? What did you do? I will know! It shan't be hid.
Perhaps 'tis only his tubes fretting him."

"No—nothing to do with his tubes. He was well within his rights. Not
that I'll allow he was right, however."

"Why can't you tell me what it is then? If you want to stop—but perhaps
you don't?"
 He considered.

"I never thought to go, and I never wanted to go less than what I do at
this minute, seeing you cast down. I be very much obliged to you in a
manner of speaking for not wanting me to go."

She looked up drearily at him and sniffed.

"We never know our luck," she said. "Not you, but me."

To his intense amazement he perceived that Susan was shedding tears.

She shook her head impatiently and it was not rain that fell from her face. If
a small fire can kindle a great one, so surely may a drop of water swell into
a river.

Light began to dawn in the mind of the man and it much astonished him
by what it revealed there. He was, in fact, so astounded by the spectacle that
he fell into silence and stared with mental eyes at the explanation of the
mysteries that had long puzzled him. His next remark linked past with
present.

"Be damned if I don't begin to know now why for I done this!" he said
with a startled voice. "I've wondered for weeks and weeks what was driving
me on, and I couldn't put no name to it, Susan; but 'tis coming out in me.
Shut your mouth a minute and let me think."

She kept silence and they plodded on. At the top of the hill a gust
caught the umbrella and it was in peril. Thomas turned it against the wind.

"Come under the lew side of the hedge," he said. "I thought 'twas
conscience driving at me—but I begin to see it weren't. There's a wonder
happening. Fetch in here under the trees a minute."

She followed him through a gap at the summit of the hill and they left
the road for the partial shelter of spruce firs. They escaped the wind, but the
rain beat from the branches upon Mr. Palk's umbrella.
 "You're a woman of very high qualities and a good bit undervalued in
your home—so it seems to me. You're the light of the house, but 'twas left
for others to find that out seemingly—not your father. He's a man with a
soft tongue, but a darned hard heart—to say it respectful."

"I'm naught and less than naught. But I was always pleased to pleasure
you," she answered.

"The light of the house," he repeated. "And 'tis the light be far more to
the purpose than the candlestick. I can speak to you straight, Susan, because
I'm ugly as sin myself and not ashamed of it. I didn't have the choosing of
my face, and my Maker didn't ax me what I'd like to look like come I grew
up. And same with you. But you be a living lesson to us other plain people,
and show us that the inside may be so fine no thinking man would waste a
thought on the outside."

Susan was not concerned with his philosophy: she had fastened on a
question of fact.

"You're not particular ugly, Thomas. I've seen scores plainer. You've got
a very honest face and nice grey eyes if I may say so."

"Certainly you may say so, and I'm very well content as you've been to
the trouble to mark the colour of my eyes. 'Tis a way women have. They
always know the colour of their friends' eyes. And if my face be honest in
your opinion, that's good news also. And as for your eyes, if they was in a
prettier setting, they'd well become it."

Susan grew a dusky red, but kept to the point.

"If you can say such things as that, surely you can tell me why you're
going?"

"I meddled—I—but leave the subject. 'Tis all dust and ashes afore
what's stirring in my head now—now I know why I meddled. You'd like me
to bide at Falcon Farm seemingly?"
 "I should then. You've got nice ways, and—and you've always been
amazing pitiful to me."

"Where would your father be if you left him?"

"I'll never leave him. He knows that."

"How old might you be?"

"Thirty-five—thirty-six come October."

"Some say port-wine marks are handed down, and again some say they
are not. And if you was to hand it down, you'd hand down what's better too,
I shouldn't wonder."

She did not answer, but gasped and stared in front of her.

"Look here," he said. "Now I see so plain why for I done this, why the
mischief shouldn't you? 'Twas done because I've risen up into loving you,
Susan! I want you—I want to marry you—I'll take my dying oath I do. It
have just come over me like a flap of lightning. Oh, hell!"

The bottle of wine had trembled dangerously in Soosie-Toosie's arm

before; now it dropped, broke on a stone, and spread its contents at their
feet. The sweet air suddenly reeked of it. But Susan ignored the catastrophe.

"Me! Me! My God, you must be mad!"

"If so, then there's a lot to be said for being mad. But I ain't. I see the
light. I've been after you a deuce of a time and never grasped hold of it. I
didn't think to marry. In fact my mother was the only woman I ever cared a
cuss about till I seed you. And no doubt, for your part you've long despaired
of the males; but you'm a born wife, Susan; and you might find me a very
useful pattern of husband. I love you something tremenjous, and I should be
properly pleased if you could feel the same."

"'Tis beyond dreaming," she said regarding him with wild eyes. "'Tis
beyond belief, Thomas."
 "It may be," he admitted, "but not beyond truth. We can make it a cast-
iron fact; and 'tis no odds who believes it, so long as it happens."

"You be above yourself for the minute. Your face is all alight. Best to
think it over and go to church and let a Sunday pass. I can't believe you
really and truly mean it."

"God's truth I do then."

"Father—did I ought to put love of you afore love of him, Thomas?"

"Certainly you did ought, and you've got the Bible behind you. If you
love me, then you did ought to put me afore every damn thing, and cleave
to me for ever after. Say you'll do it, like a dear woman. I want to hear you
say it, Susan. 'Twill cheer me up a lot, because I've never had the sack afore
in my life and don't like the taste of it. I be feeling low, and 'twill be a great
thing to get back on farmer afore I go to bed to-night."

She was suspicious at once.

"You ban't doing this out of revenge, however?" she asked.

"For naught but love—that I'll swear."

"To be loved by a fine man—a go-by-the-ground creature like me!"

"And never no female better fit for it."

"I'll take you, Thomas; but if you change your mind after you've slept
on it, I shan't think no worse of you. Only this I'll say, I do love you, and I
have loved you a longful time, but paid no attention to it, not
understanding."

"Then praise the Lord for all His blessings, I'm sure."

He held her close in his arms and they kissed each other. She clung to
him fervently.
 "Now, if you'll take the basket, I'll go back and buy another bottle of
sherry wine," she said.

"Not at all. But we mustn't shatter the man at one blow. He'll want more
than pretty drinking when he hears about this. I'll traapse down for another
bottle, and you go home under my umbrella; and change every stitch on
you, and drink something hot, else you might fall ill."

"Ah! That's love! That's love!" she said, looking up at him wet-eyed.

"No—only sense. I'll show 'e what love be so soon as I know myself.
You get home, and say as you dropped your bottle and was just going back
for another when I met you, on my way to Ashburton, and offered to get it.
And on the whole us'll keep the fearful news for a few days till he's well
again. 'Twill be more merciful."

"You'm made of wisdom, Tom. 'Tis a great relief to keep it from father a
bit till I've got used to the thought."

"Kiss me again then," he answered, and put his arms round her once
more.

"There's a brave lot of 'e to cuddle whether or no."

"'Tis all yours I'm sure, if you really want it, dear Thomas."

"I be coming to want it so fast as I can, woman!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE LAW
 For Dinah Waycott the sole difficulty of her position began to clear
itself; and since she was now convinced that she and Lawrence saw the
future with the same vision, she felt that future approach quickly. It seemed,
however, that for her, pure joy could only be reached through sorrow, and
on an occasion of meeting Maynard upon the moor, she said so.

"Nothing ever do run quite smooth, and out of my misfortune my

fortune comes. For it's only a terrible sad thing that be clearing the road for
us and leaving nobody in my life to think of but you."

She had assumed somewhat more than her lover at this point, and in a
sense, taken the lead.

"Your foster-father?" he said.

"Yes; it's a pretty dark cloud against my happiness, and if it was only for
that, I'd be glad to be gone. You can't say yet he don't know me; but you can
say he very soon won't. We seem to slip away from him according as he
cared for us. He don't know Jane no more at all, and asks her what he can
do for her when she comes in the room. But he knows Johnny off and on,
and he knows me off and on too. His wife he still knows, and I can see it's
life and death to her that he shall go on knowing her; because it will be a
great triumph for her if, when he's forgot everybody, he still remembers
her."

"I dare say it would be."

"I'd have been jealous as fire that he shouldn't forget me, if it hadn't
been for you. But not now. I won't be sorry to leave him now, and just love
to remember what he was to me. To think I could ever say that! It's cruel
sad, poor old dear."

"There's a bright side, however," he answered. "And though you might

say no man could be worse off than to lose his wits, yet for poor old Ben
there's one good thing: he'll never know you've gone, or how you've gone."

"I've thought of that; but how can you be sure, if he'd had the mind left
to understand, he wouldn't have been glad for me? He liked you."
 "You know different, Dinah. He liked me; but he'd never have been
glad, given the facts."

She was silent and Lawrence spoke again.

"He's only a shadow of a man now and will grow more and more faint,
till he fades away. But you'll have the grateful memory of him."

"Yes; and if ever we get a son, Lawrence, he must be called Benjamin—

I will have it so."

He fell silent. Dinah often spoke with delight of children; and it was at
those times the man felt the drag on his heart hardest. They had argued
much, but her frank puzzlement and even amusement at his problems and
doubts began to wear them down. She knew it, but, behind her assumption
of certainty, still suspected him a little. He varied and seemed more inclined
to listen than to talk. But things were rushing to a conclusion and there
could only be one.

It was agreed that they must now hide their friendship and their purpose
for the sake of other people. Dinah grew full of plans, and Lawrence
listened while she ran on; but she knew that the real plans would be made
by him. A sort of vagueness came into their relation and its cause was in his
head, not his heart. That, too, she knew. But certain things to-day he told
her and certain things, unknown to him, she now determined to do.
Impatience must have been created for Dinah this evening, but that she
understood his doubts were solely on her account. She believed that nothing
but questions of law remained to deter Maynard, and of their utter
insignificance she had often assured him.

"I've got the facts," he said, "and I'd like for you to hear them. And,
after to-night, we mustn't see each other so often. To make it easier for us
when we go, we'd better keep as far apart as need be till then. There's a lot
must pass between us and we can't post letters very well—not in the pillar-
boxes; but we may want a pillar-box of our own presently."

"What I hate about life," she cried, "is that you've got to pretend such a
lot. If this had happened to Jane, she'd love the hiding up and the plotting
and turning and twisting, like a hare running away from the hounds. But I
hate it. I hate to think the world's full of people, who look at life in such a
way that what we're going to do must be wrong."

"They've been brought up with fixed ideas about marriage and think it's
got more to do with God than with men and women. The interests of the
Church are put high above right and justice for the people. They always
were; and them that claim marriage is God's plan, also claim that He would
chain wretched, mistaken creatures together for life, quite regardless of
their honour and decency and self-respect. It's funny that educated men
should write the stuff I read; but the moment you see the word 'God' in a
newspaper, you can say good-bye to reason and pity. We're punished—we
who make a mistake—for what? Oft for nothing but misreading character,
or because truth's withheld from us on purpose. Palk was telling of a man he
knew who went courting and was never told his intended's mother was in a
mad-house. And he married, and his wife went out of her mind with her
first child. Now she's got to be put away and may live for fifty years, and
sane, well-meaning people tell the man he must bide a widower for ever-
more—at the will of God! God wills he should go alone to his dying day,
because his wife's people hid the truth from him."

"But the law—surely the law——?"

"The law's with the Church so far. They hunt in couples. But the law's
like to be altered 'tis thought; though no doubt the Church will call down
fire from Heaven if any human mercy and common sense and decency is
brought to bear on marriage."

"Can't the religious people see that lots quite as good as them, and quite
as willing and wishful to do right are being put in the wrong? And can't they
see tortured men and women won't be patient for ever?"

"No; they put us in the wrong and they keep us in the wrong, for God's
sake—so He shan't be vexed. They don't understand it isn't only adultery
that breaks up marriage, but a thousand other things beside. It's human
progress and education and understanding; and these pious people only
leave one door to escape through. And they don't seem to see that to decent
thinking and self-respecting men and women that's a door they won't enter.
They say, 'If you want to right your mistake, you must sin.' But if Almighty
God made marriage, He never made such filth to be thrust down the throats
of them that fail in marriage. Thus, any way, it stands with Minnie Courtier
at present—and with me. This is the law and clear enough. A man
disappears and blots himself out of life, you may say, and, what's more
important, blots himself out of the lives of everybody who knew him,
including his wife. And the question is, what can the wife do about it? I've
looked into this very close, and I find the issue is like a lot of other things in
the law. It often depends on the judge, and how he reads the facts of the
case, and whether he's all for the letter of the law, or one of the larger-
minded sort, who give the spirit a chance. A man not heard about for seven
years may be counted dead in the eyes of the law; but there's no
presumption he died at any particular time in the seven years, and it isn't
enough to say, 'Seven years are past and I'm in the right to presume
somebody dead.' You must have legal permission, and judges differ. You've
got to prove that diligent inquiries were made to find the vanished person
before you apply to the Court, and a human sort of judge is satisfied as a
rule and doesn't torment the public and sets a man or woman free. But if
circumstances show that the vanished party wouldn't be heard of, even if he
was alive, then many frost-bound judges won't allow he's dead, or grant
freedom to a deserted partner even after seven years. So, now, though the
seven years are up, even if application was made to assume my death, it
rests on the character of the judge whether Mrs. Courtier would be allowed
to do so."

"She may not care a button about it one way or the other," said Dinah
—"any more than I do."

"Very likely. It's only of late that I've spared a thought to her. There's
very little doubt in my mind that she's settled down to being a widow—had
enough of men I reckon."

"You don't know, however?"

"I don't know—and it's time I did, I suppose. But how?"

Dinah considered.
 "She's a clever woman and she may find herself very well content to
keep herself to herself as you say. Or she may not. One thing's sure; she'll
never forgive you, and she wouldn't do nothing to help you if she could."

"She can't help, any more than she can hinder."

"'Tis a great thought—that woman. I'd give a lot to know a bit about
her," said Dinah. "Suppose, for example——"

Then she broke off, for her mind had suddenly opened a path which
must be followed alone, if followed at all. A possibility had occurred to
Dinah—a possibility of vague and shadowy outline, but still not quite
devoid of substance. She wondered intensely about a certain thing, and
since, when she wondered, her spirit never rested until some answer to her
wonderment was forthcoming, she felt now that this problem must be
approached. Indeed it was no sooner created than it possessed her, to the
destruction of every lesser idea. She was on the verge of uttering it to
Lawrence, but controlled herself. He might disagree, and she could brook
no disagreement, even from him, before this sudden impulse. There was
hope in it for them both. She acknowledged to herself that the hope must be
small; but it existed.

She changed the subject with suspicious abruptness, but Maynard,

following his own thoughts, which led in a different direction, did not
observe that after her hiatus and a silence following on it, Dinah resumed
about something else. He had also left the facts and drifted to the future.
The suggestion that he himself had raised: to attempt some inquiry
concerning his wife, though obvious enough to any third person, did not
impress itself upon him as important. He mentioned it and dismissed it. He
felt sufficiently certain of her and her present state. The details of his own
future presented more attractive and pressing problems. For he was now
affirmed to go—either with Dinah, or before her, on an understanding that
she would follow. For the present they must certainly part and be associated
no more—either by rumour or in reality.

Upon these thoughts she struck, so naturally that it seemed they were
unconsciously communicating in their minds.
 "We must set up a post office, Lawrence, where the letters won't need
stamps; and for the minute I'd be glad if you could give me a few shillings
for pocket-money. I've got a hatred now of Bamsey money and the five
shillings a week Mrs. Bamsey gives me, because foster-father's past doing it
himself. And I've told them that I'm not going to take any of his money in
the future. I've told them very clear about that and I mean it."

"I'm glad you have. But they won't agree."

"So they say; but I shall be far ways off, beyond their reach or
knowledge, long before then. And Jane knows clearly I won't touch it."

Maynard brought out a little leathern purse and gave Dinah the contents
—some thirty shillings.

She thanked him and assured him that would be enough. They parted
soon afterwards and arranged to meet once more, on a date a fortnight
hence, in late evening, at a certain gate not above a mile from Green Hayes.

"I may have something to tell you by then," she said, "and I'll find a
post office. It'll be a year till I see you again."

He took a lingering leave of her and was moved by a last word she
spoke at parting.

"We never get no time to love each other," she said, "'tis all hard, hateful
talk and plotting. But we'll make up to each other some day."

Then he went his way, leaving her to develop her secret determination.

Conscience smote Dinah that she should enter upon any such adventure
without telling him; but the fear that he might forbid her was too great, for
she felt very positive the step she designed must be to the good. Certain
precious and definite knowledge at least would follow; and the worst that
could happen would only leave them where they were.

She meant to go to Barnstaple. When she had broken off her speech, she
was about to put it to Maynard whether the woman there might not be in his
own position—desirous to marry and perhaps even already seeking the aid
of the law to free herself from a vanished spouse. It seemed intensely
possible to Dinah; but evidently in the mind of Lawrence no such likelihood
existed. That he should not have followed the thought showed how little
importance he attached to it—so little that she felt sure he would not have
supported her sudden desire to learn more. Therefore she kept the
inspiration from him and determined he should know nothing until her
quest was accomplished.

And, he, having left her, now endeavoured, as he had endeavoured for
many days, to shake his mind clear of cobwebs and traditions and
prevenient fears. Even his thoughts for her seemed petty when he was with
her. Deeply he longed for Dinah, and the peace that she must bring to his
mind, and the contentment inevitable out of a life shared with hers.

Perhaps for the first time he now resolutely banished every doubt, thrust
them behind him, and devoted all future thought to their departure from
England. He inclined to Australia now from all that he had read and heard
about it. There he would take Dinah, and there, as "Lawrence Maynard," he
would marry her.

He began to look back upon his doubts as unmanly and mawkish; he

began to marvel that, for so many painful months, he had entertained them.
He assured himself that the air was clean and cloudless at last, and designed
to advance the situation by definite preliminary steps before he met Dinah
again.

CHAPTER XXIX

JOE TAKES IT ILL

 Melinda Honeysett came to see Mr. Stockman, and it happened that she
paid her visit but half an hour after heavy tidings had fallen on his ears.

From the moment of her arrival, she was aware of something unusual in
his manner, and presently she learned from him all particulars.

He was in his garden, sitting alone under a little arbour constructed at

the side of the house with its eye in the sun; and there he sat with his hands
in his pockets, idle, staring before him. Even the customary pipe was absent
from his mouth. He was restored to health, as Melinda knew; but she felt at
a loss to see him dawdling thus at noon. He looked old and dejected too, nor
did he rise to greet her when she entered the garden.

She approached him therefore, and he gazed indifferently and dull-eyed

upon her.

"Morning, Joe. They cabbages you gave me be all bolting* I'm sorry to
say, and Mr. Ford, my next door neighbour, tells me I can't do nothing."

* "Bolting"—running to seed.

"Ban't the only things that's bolting. Funny as you should be the one to
face me after what I've just heard."

"You'm down seemingly?"

"Down and out you might say without straining the truth. It's a blasted
world, though the sun do be happening to shine. I've had the hardest blow
of my life this morning. I'm still wondering if I ban't in an evil dream."

"Terrible sorry I'm sure. Good and bad luck don't wait for the weather. I
be in trouble, too—more or less. Jerry and Jane Bamsey have fallen out and
I'm in two minds—sorry for Jerry, and yet not all sorry, for father always
said she wasn't any good. Yet I don't know what Jerry will do if it don't
come right."
 Mr. Stockman seemed totally uninterested at this news. He still looked
before him and brooded. Melinda took a cane chair, which stood near his,
and mopped her face, for she was hot.

"Only a lovers' quarrel I dare say; but if it was broke off altogether I
reckon my brother might live to be thankful. And Orphan Dinah's gone to
find work somewhere. I hope she will this time. Jane thinks she's run away
to get married."

"Marriage—marriage!" he said. "Perdition take all this bleating about

marriage! I'm sick to death of it, as well I may be."

She was astonished.

"I never heard you talk against it for them so inclined. Marriage is a
good bit in the air this summer I believe. My sailor brother, Robert, be
coming home for a spell pretty soon. And he writes me as he'll wed afore he
goes back to sea, if he can find one. And I thought of Dinah. And Mr. Ford,
the gardener, next to me—I reckon he means to marry again. He's got a
great opinion of the state. Harry Ford's my own age to a day, strange to say.
Our birthdays fall together. He had no luck with his wife, but he's going to
try again I can see."

"I don't want to hear no more about him, or anybody else," said Mr.
Stockman. "'Tis doubtful manners mentioning him to me. If you knew what
I know, you'd be dumb with horror."

"Well, I can't be horrified if you won't tell me why I should. Where's

Soosie-Toosie?"

She received a shattering answer.

"To hell with Soosie-Toosie!" cried Joe.

"Man alive, what's got into you? Be you ill again, or is it Palk leaving?
If that's the trouble, lift your finger and he'll stay. You do that. I lay he
meant nothing but good, standing up for Susan. He's a clumsy, ignorant
creature; but you're always quick to forgive faults a man can't help. Pardon
the chap and let him bide. I've always told you it was going too far to sack
him on that. Don't be craking about it no more. It's your fault, after all, that
he's going."

He glowered at her.

"You're like cats—the pack of you—never do what a reasonable

creature wants, or expects. Put a bowl for 'em and they'll only drink out of a
jug. Call 'em to the fire, they'll go to the window. Ope the window for 'em
and they'll turn round and make you ope the door. And only a born fool
wastes time or thought to please a cat; and be damned if ever I will again."

"Be you talking about Susan, or me?" asked Mrs. Honeysett, with rising
colour. She did not know what was disturbing Joe's mind and began to feel
angry. He pursued his own dark thoughts a moment longer and then, as she
rose to leave him, he broke his news.

"Not an hour ago, when all was peace and I had been able to tell the
household I found myself well again, and was turning over an
advertisement for a new horseman, they crept before me, hand in hand—
like a brace of children."

"Who did?"

"Why, Susan and that blasted sarpent, Palk."

"Palk a sarpent!"

"Do, for God's sake, shut up and listen, and don't keep interrupting.
They came afore me. And Palk said that, owing to a wonderful bit of news,
he hoped we was going to part friends and not enemies, though he was
afraid as he might have to give me another jar. Then I told him to drop my
darter's hand that instant moment and not come mountybanking about when
he ought to be at work; and then he said that Susan had taken him, and they
hoped afore long to be married!"

"Mercy on us, Joe!"

 "That's what I heard this morning. And the woman put in her oar when I
asked Palk if he was drunk. She said she loved him well and dearly, and
hoped that I wouldn't fling no cold water over her great joy, or be any the
less a kind father to her. Got it all by heart of course."

"What a world! That's the last thing ever I should have thought to fall
out."

"Or any other sane human. It's a wicked outrage in my opinion and
done, of course, for revenge, because I cast the man away—cunning devil!"

"Don't you say that. You must take a higher line, Joe. Soosie-Toosie's a
good woman, and you always said Thomas was a good man."

"He's not a good man. He's a beast of a man—underhand and sly and
scheming. He's got one of them hateful, cast-iron memories, and when I
began to talk to them and soon had my daughter dumb, it was Palk, if you
please, opened his mouth and withstood me and flung my own words in my
face."

"What words?"

"And it shows kind speech to that fashion of man be no better than

cheese-cakes to a pig. I told him to think twice before he made himself a
laughing-stock to the parish, and then he minded me of the past and a thing
spoke when I sacked him, a fortnight ago. I've gone so weak as a mouse
over this job I can tell you."

"Take your time. What had you said to him?"

"I'd told him, when he dared to come afore me about my way with my
only child, that if there was anything in the world I could do for Susan to
make her home a happier place, he might rest assured she would tell me so
herself. And the sarpent remembered that and then invited the woman to
speak; which she did do, and told me that her life, without this grey-headed
son of a gun, wouldn't be worth living no more; and she hoped that I
wouldn't pay back all her love and life-long service—'service,' mind you—
by making a rumpus about it, or doing or saying anything unkind. And I've