Cyprian & Lactantius · a new plain-English translation from the original language
The next day an edict was posted providing that men of that religion should be stripped of every honor and rank, should be liable to torture regardless of what order or degree they came from, and that any legal action might be brought against them, while they themselves could bring no suit for injury, for adultery, or for property taken away; in short, they were to have neither freedom nor a voice. A certain man, though not wisely, yet with great courage, tore this edict down and shredded it, mocking as he did so and saying that victories over the Goths and Sarmatians had been posted up. He was at once seized, and not merely racked but methodically roasted, and finally, with astonishing patience, burned to death.
But Caesar was not content with the provisions of the edict; he prepared to move against Diocletian in another way. To drive him toward the plan of a most savage persecution, he had his secret agents set fire to the palace, and when part of it had burned, the Christians were accused as public enemies, and amid enormous outcry the name of the Christians was said to be burning right along with the palace: they were said to have plotted with the eunuchs to destroy the emperors, and the two rulers had nearly been burned alive in their own home. Diocletian, who always wanted to be thought shrewd and perceptive, could suspect nothing, but, inflamed with anger, ordered all his own household tortured on the spot. He sat there himself and put innocent people to the torment of fire; likewise all the judges, and indeed everyone in the palace who held any office, were given authority and applied torture. They vied with one another over who would be first to discover something; nothing at all was found, since of course no one tortured Caesar's own household. He himself was present and pressed the matter, and would not let the old man's unconsidered rage burn itself out. But after fifteen days had passed, he contrived yet another fire. This one, however, was noticed more quickly, though again no author was found. Then Caesar, having arranged his departure in the middle of winter, burst out that very day, protesting that he was fleeing so as not to be burned alive.
So the emperor now raged not only against his own household but against everyone. And first of all, he compelled his daughter Valeria, together with his wife Prisca, to submit to the defilement of sacrifice. Eunuchs who had once been most powerful, through whom he himself had formerly kept the palace running, were put to death; priests and ministers were seized and, without any proof or confession, condemned along with all their households and led away. People of every sex and age were seized for burning, and not one at a time — since the multitude was so great — but were surrounded by fire in groups; members of the household had millstones tied to their necks and were thrown into the sea. No less violently did the persecution fall upon the rest of the population. Judges scattered through every temple forced everyone to sacrifice. The prisons were full, unheard-of kinds of torture were devised, and so that no one's case might be judged without proper ceremony, altars were set up in the judges' private chambers and before the tribunal, so that litigants would first sacrifice and only then plead their cases — thus one approached the judges as though approaching gods. Letters were even sent to Maximian and Constantius asking them to do the same, though their opinion had not in fact been awaited on matters of such weight. And indeed old Maximian, a man not overly merciful, obeyed willingly throughout Italy. But Constantius, so as not to seem to be departing from the precedents set by his elders, allowed the meeting-houses — that is, mere walls, which could be rebuilt — to be torn down, but kept safe the true temple of God, which is within human beings.
So the whole earth was in torment, and apart from the Gauls, from east to west three most bitter beasts raged savagely. Not if I had a hundred tongues and a hundred iron-throated voices could I catch every form of the crimes, or run through every name of the punishments, that judges throughout the provinces inflicted on the just and the innocent. But why should I need to tell you these things especially, dearest Donatus, who beyond all others have felt the storm of that turbulent persecution? For when you fell into the hands of Flaccinus the prefect — no small murderer — and then of Hierocles, promoted from vicar to governor, who was the author and adviser urging the persecution forward, and finally of Priscillianus his successor, you gave proof to everyone of unconquered courage. Nine times subjected to torments and various tortures, nine times you overcame your adversary with a glorious confession; in nine battles you defeated the devil and his agents, in nine victories you triumphed over the age and its terrors. How pleasing a spectacle that was to God, to see you as victor, yoking to your chariot not white horses or monstrous elephants, but the very men who had thought to triumph over you! This is the true triumph, when the would-be masters are mastered. For they were conquered and subjugated by your virtue, since, scorning that wicked command, you overthrew every apparatus and terror of tyrannical power by steadfast faith and strength of spirit. Against you the lashes availed nothing, the claws nothing, the fire nothing, the iron nothing, the varied kinds of torment nothing: no force could take from you your faith and devotion. Such is what marks one out as a disciple of God, and such is what marks one out as a soldier of Christ, one whom no enemy can conquer, whom no wolf can snatch from the heavenly camp, whom no snare can trap, whom no pain can defeat, whom no torture can crush. Indeed, after those nine most glorious battles in which the devil was beaten by you, he did not dare engage you further, having learned through so many contests that he could not overcome you. And though the victor's crown was ready for you, he ceased to provoke you further, lest you take it up; and though you have not yet received it in the present life, it is kept whole for you in the kingdom of the Lord, in recognition of your virtues and merits. But let us return to the order of events.
After this crime had been committed, Diocletian — his good fortune having by now abandoned him — set out at once for Rome, to celebrate there the day of his twentieth anniversary, which was to fall on the twelfth day before the Kalends of December. When these solemnities had been celebrated, unable to bear the freedom of the Roman people, restless and sick at heart, he rushed out of the city as the Kalends of January approached, on which he was to enter his ninth consulship. He could not endure thirteen days so as to take up the consulship at Rome rather than at Ravenna, but set out amid raging winter weather, and, battered by cold and rain, contracted a mild but persistent illness; harassed the whole journey through, he traveled much of it in a litter. Thus, with summer past, going around by the bank of the Danube, he came to Nicomedia as his illness was already growing serious. Seeing himself weighed down by it, he nevertheless had himself brought out so as to dedicate the circus he had built, in the year following the completion of his twentieth anniversary. Then he was so overwhelmed by weakness that prayers were offered to all the gods on behalf of his life, until on the Ides of December mourning suddenly broke out in the palace, grief and tears among the officials, alarm and silence throughout the whole city. Already they were saying not merely that he had died but that he had been buried, when suddenly, the next morning, a rumor spread that he was alive, and the faces of the household and the officials changed to gladness. There were those who suspected that his death was being concealed until Caesar could arrive, lest the soldiers attempt some upheaval. This suspicion held so strongly that no one believed he was alive until he appeared on the Kalends of March, scarcely recognizable, since he had wasted away from illness for nearly a whole year. And indeed on the Ides of December he had been overtaken by death and had received his life back — but not wholly. For he became deranged, so that at certain hours he raved and at others came to his senses.
Not many days later Caesar arrived, not to congratulate his father but to force him to yield up the empire. He had recently clashed with old Maximian and had frightened him by raising the specter of civil war. So he approached Diocletian, first gently and as a friend, saying that he was now old, no longer strong, and unfit to administer the state: he ought to rest after his labors. At the same time he brought up the example of Nerva, who had handed the empire over to Trajan. Diocletian replied that it would be unseemly, after so great and lofty a height of glory, to sink into the shadows of a humble life, and less safe besides, since in so long a reign he had earned the hatred of many; whereas Nerva, having ruled only one year, unable by reason of age or lack of experience to bear the weight and care of such great affairs, had cast off the helm of the state and returned to the private life in which he had grown old. But if Galerius wished to gain the title of emperor, nothing stood in the way of everyone being called Augustus. Galerius, however, who had already seized the whole world in hope, seeing that this would gain him nothing much beyond a mere title, answered that his own arrangement ought to be preserved permanently: that there should be two senior rulers in the state holding supreme power, and likewise two juniors to assist them; between two, harmony could easily be kept, but among four equals, never. If Diocletian himself refused to step down, he would look to his own interests, so as no longer to be the lesser and the last. Already fifteen years had gone by in which he had been banished to Illyricum, that is, to the bank of the Danube, struggling with barbarian peoples, while others ruled in comfort within broader and quieter lands. Hearing this, the weak old man — who had already received a letter from old Maximian confirming whatever Galerius had said, and had learned that Galerius had been building up his army — said tearfully, “Let it be so, if this is pleasing.” It remained that the Caesars be chosen by common agreement of all. “What need is there of agreement,” said Galerius, “when it is necessary for those two to approve whatever we do?” “Very well, then. For their sons must be named.” Now Maximian had a son, Maxentius, this same Maximian's own son-in-law, a man of ruinous and evil disposition, so arrogant and defiant that he was accustomed to show reverence to neither his father nor his father-in-law, and for that reason was hateful to both. Constantius too had a son, Constantine, a most upright young man and most worthy of that high rank, who by his striking and handsome bearing, his military diligence, his good character, and his singular affability was loved by the soldiers and desired by private citizens. He too happened to be present just then, Diocletian having some while before raised him to a tribuneship of the first rank. “So what is to be done?” “He,” said Galerius, “is not worthy. For the man who scorned me as a private citizen — what will he do once he has received power?” “But this one is both likeable, and will rule in such a way as to be judged better and more merciful than his father.” “It will happen so that I shall not be able to do as I wish. Those, then, ought to be named who are in my power, who fear me, who do nothing except at my command.” “Whom, then, shall we make?” “Severus,” he said. “That drunken, sodden dancer, for whom night is day and day is night?” “He is worthy,” he said, “since he has served the soldiers faithfully, and I have sent him to Maximian to be invested by him.” “So be it. Whom else will you give?” “This one,” he said, pointing to Daia, a certain half-barbarian young man, whom he had recently ordered to be called Maximinus after his own name — for Diocletian had likewise changed part of this man's name for the omen's sake, since Maximian had shown him the utmost loyal devotion. “Who is this you are offering me?” “My relative,” he said. And Diocletian, groaning, said, “You are giving me men unfit to be entrusted with the guardianship of the state.” “I have approved them,” Galerius said. “You will see to it, since you are the one taking up the direction of the empire. I have labored enough and have provided as best I could that, while I ruled, the state should stand unharmed. If any misfortune follows, the fault will not be mine.
With these matters settled, the proceedings took place on the Kalends of May. All eyes were on Constantine; there was no doubt in anyone's mind: the soldiers who were present, and the leading men of the army chosen and summoned from the legions, were intent on him alone, rejoicing, hoping, and offering their prayers for him. There was a high place outside the city, about three miles off, on top of which Maximian himself had once assumed the purple, and there a column had been set up bearing the image of Jupiter. To this place they proceeded. An assembly of the soldiers was called. The old man began, in tears, addressing the troops: he said that he was weak, that he sought rest after his labors, that he was handing the empire to stronger men, and appointing new Caesars in his place. Everyone waited in the highest suspense to hear what he would announce. Then suddenly he proclaimed Severus and Maximinus as Caesars. Everyone was struck dumb. Constantine stood upon the platform. They hesitated among themselves whether it was Constantine whose name had been changed, when, in full view of everyone, Maximian, reaching his hand backward, pulled Daia forward from behind, pushing Constantine aside, and, having stripped him of his private clothing, set him in the midst. Everyone wondered who he was and where he came from. Yet no one dared protest, all stunned by the unexpected novelty of the affair. Diocletian threw his own purple robe, which he had just taken off, over this man, and thus Diocletian became simply Diocles once more. Then they came down, and the old king was carried out of the city by carriage through the crowd and sent back to his homeland, while Daia, only recently lifted up from herding cattle and living among the woods — at once made a shield-bearer, then immediately a bodyguard, soon a tribune, and the very next day a Caesar — received the East to trample and crush, since he understood neither soldiering nor statecraft, being now a shepherd not of cattle but of soldiers.
After Galerius had achieved what he wanted by expelling the old rulers, he now claimed to be sole master of the whole world. As for Constantius, although it was necessary that he be named first, Galerius despised him, both because he was mild by nature and because he was hampered by ill health. He expected Constantius would soon die, and if he did not, it seemed easy enough to strip him of his rank even against his will. For what could Constantius do, if forced by three men to lay down the empire? Galerius had at his side Licinius, a friend from their old days serving together and a companion since his earliest military service, whose counsel he relied on in managing everything, but he did not wish to make him Caesar, so as not to have to call him son, intending instead to name him later Augustus and brother in Constantius's place. Then he himself would hold supreme power and, having run riot over the earth at his own pleasure, would celebrate his own twentieth anniversary, and, having set up his own son — who was then nine years old — as Caesar in his place, would himself step down as well; so that with Licinius and Severus holding the highest power, and, in the rank of Caesar beneath them, Maximinus and Candidianus, he, hedged about by an impregnable wall, might spend a secure and tranquil old age. Such were the plans he was working toward. But God, whom he had made his enemy, undid all his calculations.
Having thus attained the greatest power, he turned his mind to tormenting the world that lay open before him. For after the defeat of the Persians — whose custom and practice it is that their peoples bind themselves in servitude to their kings, and the kings treat their people as their own household — this wicked man wanted to introduce that same custom into Roman territory, and from that time on he shamelessly boasted of his victory over them. And since he could not openly command this, he acted so as himself to strip men of their freedom. First of all he took away their honors. Not only town councillors but even the leading men of the cities, distinguished and most eminent persons, were tortured by him, and indeed over trivial, civil matters. If they seemed deserving of death, crosses stood ready; if not, chains were prepared. Freeborn and noble matrons were dragged off into the weaving-houses. If anyone was to be flogged, four stakes stood fixed in a shed, to which no slave was ever ordinarily bound. Why should I describe his amusements and his pleasures? He kept bears as savage and enormous as himself, which he had selected throughout the whole time of his reign. Whenever he wished to be entertained, he would order one of them brought by name. Men were thrown to them not simply to be eaten but to be devoured whole; as their limbs were torn apart he would laugh most sweetly, and he never dined without human blood being shed. For those who held no rank, the penalty was fire. This he had first permitted against the Christians by issuing laws that, once condemned after torture, they should be burned with slow fires. When they had been bound, a mild flame was set beneath their feet and held there, until the calloused skin of their soles, shrunk tight by the heat, tore loose from the bones. Then lit and extinguished torches were applied to each limb in turn, so that no part of the body was left untouched. Meanwhile their faces were doused with cold water and their mouths moistened, so that their throats, parched with dryness, would not quickly yield up their breath — which nevertheless happened in the end, when, after a whole long day, the skin having been entirely consumed, the force of the fire had penetrated to the innermost organs. Then, on a pyre built for the purpose, bodies already burned were burned again. The gathered bones, ground to powder, were thrown into rivers and the sea.
So then, what he had learned in torturing Christians he now practiced against everyone, out of sheer habit. No punishment was light in his eyes — not exile to an island, not prison, not the mines — but fire, the cross, and wild beasts were his everyday, easy resort. Household servants and administrators were corrected with the spear. In cases carrying the death penalty, execution by the sword was granted to very few indeed, almost as a favor, to those who had earned an easy death by long-standing merit. Compared to these things, the following were minor: eloquence was extinguished, advocates were done away with, jurists were either exiled or put to death, and letters were counted among the wicked arts, so that those who were learned in them were crushed and cursed as enemies and adversaries. License in all things was assumed once the laws had been dissolved, and given over to the judges. Military judges, strangers to letters and to humane learning, were sent into the provinces without legal assessors.