At first glance, the Arch of Constantine appears fairly straightforward: dedicated by the Senate in 315 A.D. to commemorate both the tenth anniversary of Constantine’s reign—his decinnalia—and his victory over the emperor Maxentius in 312 in the Battle of the Milvian Bridge, it was the city’s largest—and last--triumphal arch and today is a priceless remnant from a time when Rome was still an empire and its ruler wielded absolute power. But as we shall see, there is much more to this pile of marble than listed in the stock descriptions of most guidebooks, and as with so many things in the Eternal City, this immense monument is an ancient Roman sphinx that embodies mysteries, contradictions, and controversies which have baffled generations of archeologists and art historians up to the present day.

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First is the fact that it is still standing at all. The arch really isn’t a remnant or even a ruin, since, despite knocks, cracks, and chips, it appears largely the way it did at its dedication 1700 years ago. True, in the 12th century it was briefly incorporated into a fortification for one of the Medieval families in Rome, but they didn’t damage it as happened with other ancient structures that were turned into towers and defensive enclosures. That it hasn’t been stripped bare and torn apart for use in Medieval churches, palaces, and hovels—the fate of the nearby Temple of Venus and Rome and the Colosseum, now shades of their former magnificence—that it has stood intact as the rest of Rome sank and crumbled into dust speaks to the deeper and more profound meaning of this monument, which in stone and marble attests to a seismic change in the course of history which has made western civilization what it is today. Indeed, in the 15th century, one of the popes even repaired it—the only other ancient structures the popes spent precious resources on fixing were the aqueducts, bridges, and the few temples such as the Pantheon which had been converted to churches. Of course, the reason it has survived the vicissitudes of the centuries and hasn’t been reduced to rubble is that it honors the emperor who, after decades of violent persecution by previous emperors, openly favored Christianity and its adherents, a shift in imperial policy which changed everything, setting western civilization on a road that affects us even today. In the very early Dark Ages, perhaps the 8th or 9th century, the pope carted up and shipped to the Lateran Basilica, his official residence and church, ancient fragments of Roman power, which included statues of Constantine, to add luster to his claim of being heir to the Roman Empire. If he could have done it, the pope probably would have also moved the arch to adorn his palace.

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Of course, there is irony in how the arch celebrates a brutal military victory hailed by the Church as ushering in the new age of the Prince of Peace. In and of itself, Constantine’s struggle against Maxentius was nothing new—ever since “the crisis of the third century,” a procession of generals fought one another for the imperial purple, their legions visiting havoc and incalculable suffering on the populace. In the late 200s, the emperor Diocletian, a hard-nosed military type, restored a semblance of order by setting up an elaborate process by which four mini-emperors called Caesars and Augusti would peacefully ascend to the throne, but as soon as Diocletian retired, this system quickly collapsed. Early on in his career, Constantine was just another ruthless general who believed he should be emperor, never mind his relatively humble origins and not being in the line of succession set up by Diocletian. But the difference in 312 was that Constantine attributed his victory over Maxentius to a vision he had before battle in which a cross emblazoned in the sky was accompanied by the words “In Hoc Signo Vinces”--“In This Sign You Will Conquer”--prompting him to order his soldiers to put on their shields the Greek letters “Chi-Rho,” the symbol for Christ’s name. As with most stories from long ago, there are different versions which the emperor related to Church leaders over the decades, and it’s possible he made it up after his victory—we now know that human memory is pliable and unreliable. However, ever since then the initials "IHS"--In Hoc Signo [Vinces]" have been plastered over altars, communion vessels, banners, and almost everything else in churches of all denominations over the past 2000 years. Indeed, Constantine’s army was half the size of the emperor’s, but Maxentius made strategic miscalculations which resulted in his army, as well as himself, drowning in the Tiber at the Milvian Bridge just outside of Rome. As emperors go, Maxentius was probably not a bad one—unlike his predecessors, whose courts were in cities like Milan or Nicomedia (in Asia Minor), he actually resided in Rome and was intent on returning it to its prior preeminence in the empire. He restored many of its monuments—the nearby Temple of Venus and Rome was one of his restorations—and he adopted the title “preserver of his city.” Later in his reign he instituted unpopular policies and taxes, and if history is to be believed—Mary Beard has noted  in her books on ancient Rome that it is the victors who write, and rewrite history—Constantine’s adventus into Rome the day after Maxentius drowned was wildly acclaimed by the Senate and People of Rome. Then again, his army was camped outside Rome. In response to this outpouring of public adulation, the Senate pledged to build an arch to Constantine’s glory, bestowing grandiloquent titles upon their new ruler. Always having to be on the move to quell barbarian incursions throughout the empire, as well as to quash any potential usurpers, Constantine stayed in Rome for only two months and couldn’t attend his arch’s dedication three years later.

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Although away from Rome for fourteen years after his defeat of Maxentius, Constantine nonetheless made good on what he regarded was a debt to God, and he inaugurated an unprecedented program of church building in Rome, all of it away from the central part of the city and on imperial property located on the outskirts. Although up to one-third of Rome was probably Christian—in the eastern provinces the percentage was higher—the local ruling elite, fabulously wealthy senatorial families with vast landholdings throughout the empire, was firmly pagan and took a jaundiced view of the religion embraced by their emperor. Since he could do as he wished with imperial property, Constantine built large basilicas—St. John Lateran and St. Peter’s were his most impressive churches—and lavishly decorated them, often with gold and silver he ordered the city’s pagan temples to turn over. Out of sight of the Senate and pagan devotees—Constantine probably saw no mileage in rubbing their noses in it--these churches were plain and non-descript on the exterior and sumptuous on the inside. Perhaps the only instance of flaunting his new faith within the pagan precincts of Rome was his colossal statue in the gargantuan Basilica Nova in the Forum: he was holding the labarum, a quasi-military standard bearing the “Chi-Ro” symbol for Christ. Fragments of this statue are in the entrance courtyard of the Capitoline Museums—his massive head conveys an other-worldly hauteur, a sense of absolute certainty about his august status in the cosmos.  Constantine’s church building was especially remarkable in the Holy Land, where basilicas were built over important Christian sites, including what was regarded as Jesus’s tomb. He was helped in this regard by his mother Helena, now with the title of Dowager Empress, who toured the east with a vast retinue of servants, soldiers, and clerics in her search for sacred relics such as the True Cross, which she brought back to Rome—one can imagine how bishops of the cities she was about to visit cast about for plausible souvenirs to impress their august guest. So while architects and workmen were beavering away on his arch in Rome, the emperor, in addition to the multiple demands of ruling an empire and always watching his back, was undoubtedly being regularly briefed on the plans and progress of the many churches he was erecting throughout the empire. Constantine certainly had his representatives in Rome, who might have reviewed the plans for the arch, but it is unclear to what extent he was involved in approving its sculptural organization—getting dispatches to and from Rome would have taken many months. Some art historians argue that the emperor was actively involved in the layout of his arch, that he intended it to set forth his ideological and religious agenda and to place himself among the great emperors of the past, but no one knows—indeed, no ancient records have been found that even mention the existence of the arch. When he returned to Rome in 326, it is possible he might have just given it a quick glance, since he was also involved in the construction of St. Peter’s at the time, a major endeavor involving huge earthworks in leveling off Vatican Hill and filling in the necropolis that had grown up over the centuries around the saint’s modest tomb. Indeed, there is no record of any triumphal procession through the arch. If Constantine did stop to take in this tribute to his victory in 312—the imperial palace was only a stone-throw’s away—it is interesting to muse on his reaction to it, and to marvel at a megalomaniacal mind which naturally felt entitled to have such a monument dedicated to him. Then again, many of the church clerics regularly invited to dine and converse with the emperor about theological matters hailed him as The Thirteenth Apostle.  

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The above uncertainties and mysteries about Constantine’s role in the construction of his arch extend to the actual stone and marble of the structure, which speak to his possible agenda and the state of artistic aesthetics in the early 4th century. Rome’s ruins have many stories to tell--some of them actually true!—and a largely intact ruin like the Arch of Constantine has multiple layers of meaning, mystery, and contradiction. But before exploring these intriguing questions, it is necessary to understand the nuts and bolts of its stones and marble.

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The Stones and Marble

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Standing before the arch, as Constantine might have 1700 years ago—the original stone pavement is still in place around it--you might feel a bit confused, even overwhelmed, by the apparent hodgepodge of different levels and styles, but considering each of the levels separately can clarify things a bit. The general thematic outline of the arch is the same on both sides of it, and only the details are different. First, on the uppermost level of the arch, in the center, is the dedicatory inscription—it’s the same on both sides, and the lettering was once in gilded bronze—in which, among the usual honorific titles, the Senate describes the emperor as being “inspired by the divine,” a seemingly ambiguous reference to a deity or deities, perhaps an ecumenical attempt to satisfy every religious persuasion of the time. On each side of the dedication, again on both sides of the arch, are two statues, approximately ten feet tall, of Dacian prisoners, heads bowed in submission. Most likely, these came from an early 2nd century monument of emperor Trajan (98-117 A.D.), perhaps from a long-destroyed arch or his magnificent forum, which celebrated the emperor Trajan’s victories over the Dacians, a barbarian people who lived in the area of present-day Romania. Their hands and feet are mostly restored, but these ancient sentinels are otherwise as they were when they were taken from Trajan’s monument and hoisted to the top of Constantine’s arch. Imagine the pageant of history these captives have gazed down upon over the past 17 centuries: perhaps upon Constantine and his retinue, certainly upon marauding barbarians much like themselves, Medieval papal processions, invading Normans, Spanish and French armies, occupying Nazi troops and American liberators, furtive sexual assignations in nearby shadows (the Colosseum was a hangout for prostitutes for many centuries), legions of tourists, and now you.

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In between the Dacians—again, this layout is the same on both sides of the arch—are pairs of panels of exquisite sculptural reliefs that were taken from a long-lost monument to Marcus Aurelius (161-180 A.D.), the last of the five “good emperors” of the 2nd century, when, according to the 18th century historian Edward Gibbon in his magisterial The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, humankind was happy, prosperous, and at peace. A philosopher at heart—his Meditations are read even today as a source of contemplation and introspection—Marcus spent most of his rule with his legions on the northern frontier of the empire, repelling and subduing one barbarian tribe after another as they tried to cross into Roman territory. Although difficult to discern some of the details from the base of the arch, most of the eight panels commemorate some aspect of his victories over the barbarians, but unlike the violent battle scenes sculpted lower on the arch, the overall sense is one of august, almost god-like majesty and serenity. Even from a distance, it is easy to see the impeccable refinement and elegance of these reliefs: the flowing robes, the attention to details and proper proportion, the realism of the people in them—indeed, these panels, including similar ones in the Capitoline Museums, are the closest thing to a photograph from the 2nd century, recording important moments and acts of great men from a great time in Rome’s history, frozen in time and miraculously preserved for us many seventeen centuries later.

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Directly beneath the Dacians and in perfect alignment with them, as if they are supporting the barbarians, are eight free-standing fluted columns of Numidian yellow marble—even now it is possible to appreciate the faded yellow hue in some of them—topped by ornate Corinthian capitals, all obviously from another monument erected centuries earlier. The ornate entablature supported by the columns, beneath the pedestals on which the Dacians stand, almost certainly also dates from several centuries earlier. In 1597, the pope helped himself to one of the original columns for the Lateran Basilica, but—yet another indication that the Church had no intention of letting this tribute to its benefactor fall into disrepair—he replaced it with a white marble one. Between each pair of columns, above the two smaller arches, are a pair of rondels—round reliefs—depicting the emperor Hadrian (117-138 A.D.), another “good emperor,” either hunting (a past-time reserved only for the elite) or offering sacrifices to various gods. Hadrian’s head had been refashioned to a likeness of Constantine.  Although smaller, more compact, and less impressive than the top panels from the time of Marcus Aurelius, the classical harmony and faithfulness to detail in the tributes to Hadrian are likewise evident. These rondels originally had a background of porphyry marble, the purple stone reserved for imperial use—on the side of the arch facing the Colosseum, the right two rondels preserve this purple framework, which although tattered, hints at how beautiful it was back in the fourth century. The arch was further imbued with color by green marble sheathing the Dacian’s pedestals and green porphyry framing the Constantinian frieze in the middle of the arch (see below).

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The part of the arch below the rondels largely dates from the time of Constantine, and it is interesting to compare the styles and aesthetics of his time with that of the 2nd century reliefs of Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius. The fluted columns of yellow marble stand on tall bases which have reliefs of the goddess Victoria carrying symbols of triumph, barbarian prisoners (some seated at Victoria’s feet), and Roman soldiers; many of the details of these reliefs are weather worn, so it’s difficult to comment on their quality. Over the main central arch are two winged victories facing each other, each carrying a standard on which are hung trophies of defeated barbarians. The victories are presenting their booty of barbarian arms and armor to some unknown figure at the keystone at the top of the arch, which is now worn away—perhaps it was the emperor himself or a personification of Rome. In the Forum, the Arch of Septimius Severus, which was built a century before Constantine’s, has the same winged victories over the central arch, and although the victories on both arches are roughly similar, the ones on Constantine’s seem more bland and generic, with a little less detail and elegance, their robes slightly less flowing and spontaneous. These winged victories were probably standard stock for ancient triumphal arches, and soon after Christianity became firmly entrenched in the empire, similar pairs of winged figures—transformed into heavenly angels—decorated church mosaics and numerous sarcophagi of the faithful; instead of presenting barbarian booty, the two angels usually held up a disc containing the cross, or a lamb, or another symbol for Christ. And as with Severus’s monument, Constantine’s has over the side arches personifications of river gods, again more stocky than those a century earlier. Also of Constantinian construction are rondels with reliefs on the sides of the arch, personifications of the sun and moon—the sun (on the end facing the Colosseum) is riding a quadriga (a four-horse chariot), and the moon has a two-horse chariot.

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But in addition to the 2nd century panels and rondels and the largely generic reliefs from the time of Constantine, the arch is decorated with an important frieze that specifically commemorates the emperor and his victories. Running beneath the Hadrianic rondels, directly above the two smaller arches on both sides of the arch, this narrow band of sculptural reliefs recounts his battles against Maxentius (on the side not facing the Colosseum) and his addressing the Roman people in the Forum and giving them gifts (on the side facing the Colosseum). The battle scenes show columns of legionnaires laying siege to Verona on the left side not facing the Colosseum and the battle of the Milvian Bridge on the right. On the side facing the Colosseum, the address in the Forum is on the left and the giving of largess is on the right. The frieze continues on the sides of the arch, beneath the rondels of the sun and moon, and feature military themes—on the side facing the Colosseum the emperor is depicted in a quadriga entering Rome in triumph, with prisoners and soldiers in front of him. The aim of this frieze is to memorialize the emperor’s struggle to defeat the evil Maxentius. Plus, the frieze highlights Constantine’s official role as emperor, addressing the people and distributing largess to them. The one imperial role not recorded on the arch, however, was that of Pontifex Maximus, the Chief Priest of Rome’s temples to the gods who, according to tradition, had protected Rome through the preceding 1000 years of its existence. Unlike Hadrian in the rondels above, Constantine is not shown making sacrifices to the gods. Indeed, later in his reign, Constantine would hand over his title of Pontifex Maximus to the Bishop of Rome, who even today includes the initials “P.M.” after his official titles.

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Finally—it’s a bit difficult--try to look at the two sculptural reliefs on both sides of the interior of the main triumphal arch. These massive panels date from the reign of Trajan, two hundred years earlier, and were probably removed from the famous relief that once was in the Forum of Trajan, which celebrated imperial victories over barbarian tribes. Of course, the heads of the original emperors were replaced with that of Constantine. One panel shows the emperor being crowned by Victory, with two females at his side, probably personifications of Honor and Virtue. The other depicts the emperor on horseback—originally either Domitian (81-96 A.D.) or Trajan—charging and trampling barbarians. As opposed to the stately panels of Marcus Aurelius on the uppermost part of the arch, which show the emperor serenely receiving surrender of conquered tribes, the battle scene on the inner side of the main arch is terrifying in its depiction of the chaos and violence of hand-to-hand fighting in close quarters—perhaps the closest reenactment of such horrific battles is in the opening scenes of the 2000 Russell Crowe movie Gladiator. Also from the great Trajanic frieze are two similar panels at the very top of ends of the arch, above the Constantinian rondels of the sun and moon; although difficult to make out from the ground, these friezes also depict similarly ferocious battle scenes—more poor barbarians are being beaten down and trampled. The foundation, the bedrock of the Roman state from its inception was the army, without which the empire’s glittering metropolises, classical culture and aesthetics, interconnected roads and trade, and the rule of law would have been impossible. The army was a behemoth that both protected Roman civilization and, in its final centuries when imperial succession was settled on the battlefield, hastened its decline and fall. On his deathbed, the ruthless emperor Septimius Severus (193-211 A.D.) reportedly admonished his two sons, “Enrich the soldiers and despise all others.”

 

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Another Ancient Roman Mystery

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But a better understanding of the historical and artistic details of the arch raises many questions that are not easy to answer—it’s one thing to know the origin and content of a sculptural relief, and quite another to fathom why it is on the arch in the first place. Such musing and reflection seek to understand the minds and hearts of the people who made the arch.

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It doesn’t take a degree in art history to see that the reliefs on the frieze dating from the time of Constantine are not of the same quality of those from the age of Hadrian, Trajan, and Marcus Aurelius two hundred years earlier. Whereas the reliefs from the 2nd century are refined and elegant, with classical proportions and attention to details, the ones from the early 4th century seem stocky, out of proportion, and generic. In the frieze encircling the arch, the figures seem compressed and crowded, with heads disproportionately large and extremities short and frozen in place, without the slightest hint of mobility or fluidity. The depiction of Constantine in a quadriga entering Rome in triumph (the part of the frieze on the end of the arch facing the Colosseum) epitomizes this apparent degeneration of style: the emperor, his robe perfunctorily carved with a few thick folds, sits rigidly, even awkwardly, in an unadorned cart drawn by a stiffly posed horses that have none of the muscular dynamics and grace in motion displayed by the horses in the Hadrianic rondels. In the Capitoline Museums is a massive sculptural relief of the triumph of Marcus Aurelius in which the emperor, arrayed in richly detailed robes, rides in a finely decorated chariot drawn by majestic steeds worthy of his august status. The contrast could not be starker.  

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Art historians have argued for generations about why the quality of the reliefs from the age of Constantine are so apparently inferior to that of the earlier reliefs on the arch. Some have contended that by the early 4th century the chaos and violence of the preceding century hollowed out the number of skilled artisans in Rome, especially since the city, while still nominally the capital of the empire, had largely been without an emperor in long-term residence for several generations. An extension of this argument is that the paucity of skilled artisans in the city necessitated the cannibalization of reliefs on arches and monuments from centuries earlier. Other scholars contend that the flat and generic features of Constantine’s reliefs are intended to convey the emperor’s agenda and magnificence in a clear, concise, and symbolic manner that was understandable to “the man in the street,” without highfalutin references to gods, myths of the past, and an idealized conception of the Roman state. Gritty and down-to-earth, without classical embellishment, the Constantinian frieze was appealing to the common people of Rome. According to this viewpoint, the use of reliefs from the 2nd century Rome’s golden age was an attempt to associate Constantine with these great emperors of the past and to lend credibility to his claim to the throne, since he really had no legal right to the imperial purple and attained it by the sword and not by the rules established 15 years earlier by Diocletian. Perhaps a simpler reason for using sculptures from earlier monuments was that the arch had to be completed within the very short time span of three years—the Senate promised it to the emperor in 312 in time to celebrate his decinnalia in 315. Three years was a very short time to make such an immense arch de novo, so the architects cut corners by plundering monuments from two hundred years earlier. Indeed, it is fair to say that except for the few historians and intellectuals still in Rome, most people there had no clue about the 2nd century emperors adorning Constantine’s arch—images of Trajan, Hadrian, and Marcus Aurelius were probably viewed as god-like aliens from another distant time. As for the emperor himself, he probably knew the history of 2nd century Rome and its “good emperors:” as a young man, he was educated in the court of Diocletian in Nicomedia (in Asia Minor), where he studied Latin, Greek, and philosophy, all in the cosmopolitan atmosphere of a major city in the east. Of course, a combination of the above explanations is also possible.

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An even greater mystery than the reasons for using 2nd century spoils on the arch is the open question of whether the arch really dates from the age Constantine in the first place. The type of marble in the top part of the arch is different from that of the lower part, suggesting that the upper part of the arch was added to an earlier structure. The Hadrianic rondels appear to be in situ, that is, created in their original setting and not, like the panels of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius, taken from another monument and set into the arch. Some scholars contend that the arch was originally erected by Maxentius, who, as noted above, was active in building and renovating monuments in the city. Indeed, the arch’s origin with Maxentius is not far-fetched, since several of his monuments, including the Temple of Romulus and the Basilica he built on the Forum were rededicated to Constantine once he came to power, and repurposing an arch Maxentius built and rededicating it to Constantine would have been seen as just retribution for his predecessor. Others posit that the arch actually belonged to Domitian, the late 1st century emperor—recent excavations have discovered a foundation dating from the time of his rule. Although purely conjectural, maybe Domitian, who was mentally unstable later in his reign, decided to build his own arch within sight of the one previously erected to honor his predecessor and older brother Titus (79-81 A.D.), whose victory in the Jewish Wars was celebrated in a great triumph. This arch is still standing and easily visible from Constantine’s. The story becomes even more convoluted by the fact that directly above the foundation from Domitian’s era is a foundation from the time of Hadrian, a finding which is consistent with the rondels featuring this emperor being in their original place and not added later. But other experts argue that the arch completely dates from the time of Constantine. The historical record, which might have settled this controversy, is silent: there is no ancient record of the Arch of Constantine as a monument in Rome. And the Dacian prisoners looking down from the top of the arch as they have for 17 centuries aren’t talking as well.

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An Enigmatic Monument to an Enigmatic Emperor

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Perhaps it is fitting that this arch, which has been a constant fixture on the landscape of Rome for so long, is so complex and controversial, since it is associated with an equally complex and controversial emperor who so profoundly changed the course of western civilization. For the past several centuries, historians have weighed in with analyses and opinions about Constantine’s motives and beliefs in embracing and supporting Christianity. Some say he was confused and superstitious, easily swayed by the silver-tongued clerics at his court; others pronounced him coldly Machiavellian in promoting a religion that he hoped would support and sustain his grip on power and the continuation of his dynasty; and others contend he was really a true believer in the Gospel and felt it was his mission to promulgate it throughout his empire. Of course, as with the various interpretations of his arch, above, any combination of these analyses of his character could have come into play at various times in his life. It is possible that his mother, who was of low birth, was a Christian who encouraged him early on to believe, and when he was at Diocletian’s court in Nicomedia, he very likely encountered Christian theologians there. In addition to his prodigious church building activity, he actively intervened in the Arian Controversy about the nature of the Father and the Son that threatened the unity of the church, but it could also be argued that he did so in order to ensure the church’s continued support of his reign. His moving the capital of the empire to Constantinople in 330 A.D. has been interpreted as an attempt to have a thoroughly Christian capital after his break with the pagan Senate several years earlier.

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The biography of this remarkable emperor is really mind-boggling, an unending account of one successful military campaign after another, of ambition and ruthlessness, and of administrative and governmental genius. His civil, legal, and fiscal reforms were far-reaching and on their own, without his conversion to Christianity, would have earned him both the title “the Great” and his monumental arch in Rome. His reasons for supporting Christianity were probably mixed and most likely changed and evolved with time. As he lay on his deathbed in 337 A.D., he was finally baptized into the Church, a delay that at the time was rationalized by the belief that he could not carry out his secular duties without violating many Christian precepts. He was buried in an immense porphyry sarcophagus in the Church of the Holy Apostles, which he had built in Constantinople for his tomb. His sarcophagus was reportedly surrounded by statues of the Twelve Apostles paying honor to the Thirteenth, and for a thousand years Byzantine priests and patriarchs offered prayers and incense to the emperor’s memory, as well as for other great emperors subsequently buried there. In the early 13th century, Latin invaders of the Fourth Crusade raided the tombs for their precious jewels and gold, but they supposedly left Constantine’s alone. When the city Constantine founded in 330 as his new capital finally fell to the Ottoman Turks in 1453, the church was in great disrepair, with its mausoleums roofless, and was promptly demolished. In the Archeological Museum in Istanbul are four large sarcophagi of purple porphyry, empty and unmarked resting places of four emperors, the only remnants from the now vanished Church of the Holy Apostles.