The Clash of Gods and Emperors

In 384 CE, a pivotal confrontation unfolded between Symmachus, the last great pagan senator of Rome, and Ambrose, the influential Bishop of Milan. Their debate centered on the fate of Rome’s religious identity—specifically, whether the Altar of Victory, a sacred symbol in the Senate House, should remain. The removal of this altar marked more than a symbolic defeat for paganism; it signaled the collapse of Rome’s final institutional barrier against Christian dominance. Emperor Theodosius I, swayed by Ambrose, issued sweeping decrees that criminalized pagan practices, reversing the religious tolerance once enshrined in Constantine’s Edict of Milan (313 CE).

This moment was not merely theological—it was a cultural earthquake. Theodosius’s laws extended beyond public rituals, targeting private worship. Romans had long honored household gods (Lares and Penates) and ancestors at domestic shrines, but these traditions were now deemed idolatrous. Violators faced execution, and the state systematically dismantled pagan spaces. Had Pompeii’s eruption occurred in the 4th century rather than the 1st, archaeologists might have found no trace of its vibrant religious life.

The Legal War on Paganism

Theodosius’s anti-pagan decrees were methodical and severe:
– Lighting lamps or burning incense at altars was forbidden.
– Decorating walls with floral garlands—a Roman tradition tied to sacrifices—became illegal.
– Offering wine to gods or ancestors, a practice embedded in Roman social life, was banned.

Though non-lethal penalties like gold fines applied to minor infractions, the laws aimed to erase paganism’s visibility. Theodosius went further than his predecessors: he redefined non-Christian religions not just as “pagan” (different) but as “heretical” (dangerous to the state). By codifying these edicts into the Theodosian Code (438 CE), his successors turned religious orthodoxy into enforceable law. For Romans, who prided themselves on legal order, “illegality” became a potent tool to suppress dissent.

Temples Transformed: From Polytheism to Monotheism

Theodosius ordered the conversion of pagan temples into churches. Architects bricked up colonnades to create enclosed worship spaces, repurposing structures like basilicas (once civic halls) for Christian use. But this policy faced a logistical dilemma: Rome’s 300,000+ temples vastly outnumbered Christian congregations. Many unused sites were demolished, their materials looted. Only a few, like the Pantheon—rededicated as a church—survived intact.

Egyptian and Syrian temples suffered equally. The campaign against “idolatry” was imperial in scope, erasing millennia of religious architecture. As the historian John Curran notes, “The Christianization of space was as much about destruction as construction.”

The Purge of Art: When Gods Became Outlaws

The assault extended to art. Under Constantine, classical statues were still valued as cultural treasures—even in his Christian capital, Constantinople, which he adorned with looted Greek masterpieces like Phidias’s Athena Parthenos. By Theodosius’s reign, however, nude statues (the pinnacle of Greco-Roman aesthetics) were condemned as “idols” and “outlaws.”

Mobs decapitated statues, shattered limbs, or hurled them into rivers. The Apollo of Praxiteles, recovered from the Tiber in 1891, bears stains from centuries underwater—a relic of this iconoclasm. Yet some artworks survived unscathed, suggesting clandestine preservation. The Capitoline Venus, for instance, may have been buried by sympathetic owners awaiting calmer times.

The Paradox of Roman Tolerance

Rome’s conquest of Greece (2nd century BCE) had been cultural as much as military. The poet Horace quipped, “Captive Greece took captive her savage conqueror,” acknowledging Rome’s debt to Hellenic art and philosophy. For centuries, Romans replicated Greek sculptures with reverence, ensuring their legacy endured. Yet by 384 CE, the same society that championed clementia (tolerance) was dismantling its heritage.

Legacy: A Fractured Inheritance

The Theodosian Decrees reshaped Europe’s spiritual landscape, but their cultural costs were profound. The Renaissance’s rediscovery of buried statues—many damaged beyond repair—hints at what was lost. Today, museums display these fragments as both art and cautionary tales. The 4th-century purge reminds us how quickly tolerance can unravel under ideological pressure—a lesson echoing far beyond antiquity.

As we admire the Apollo or Venus, we witness not just beauty, but resilience. Their survival, whether by chance or secret defiance, offers a muted rebuttal to Theodosius’s absolutism. In the end, the stones outlasted the empire that sought to silence them.