The Sword of the Sky

Italy, October 27, 312 A.D.

The landscape before the man was already a victory in itself. The road he had traveled was long, but every single effort was worth it to behold that sight. Before him, the sun was setting over a river that, with its many bends, seemed to embrace a city that could not fail to stir deep emotion in anyone who gazed upon it. Thousands upon thousands of stone buildings stretched across what appeared to be hills, and magnificent marble wonders rose suddenly, almost illuminating that metropolis which had so profoundly shaped the world, where his ancestors had built a civilization.

Rome revealed itself in all its beauty as the capital of the world. Invaded, corrupted, destroyed many times—yet the Eternal City still possessed immense charm. Only from there could the man set things right again. End that civil war in which Romans fought against Romans, brought about by dreadful governance.

With him, everything would change.

“The men are ready, Augustus. We have the opportunity to take the enemy from behind. I would advise proceeding.”

“So be it, Flavius. Give the order for the troops to advance. By tomorrow morning we will be able to launch the decisive offensive.”

“As you command, Augustus.”

The man turned once more to gaze at the panorama as the adviser who had interrupted him departed. At last, he too withdrew to his quarters within the camp. The following day would be decisive.

“Powerful Augustus of the West, you seem confident.”

Inside his tent, a stunning woman with long brown hair fixed him with extraordinary hazel eyes—lights in a pale, flawless face that perfectly matched the radiant toga covering her body, woven entirely of fine silk and adorned with countless golden details.

“Shouldn’t I?” he replied.

“A rational man would not be. Your enemy greatly outnumbers you.”

“He outnumbered me at Taurinum. He outnumbered me at Verona. I did not surrender then. And I will not surrender now, one step from victory. After all…” His tone grew more reflective as his gaze fixed on the only other person in the tent. “…I have the protection of the gods.”

At those words, the woman smiled.

“The gods… the gods can be mocking at times.”

The man reached beside his quarters and took what appeared to be a sword—but it was immediately clear that it was far longer than those carried by his legionaries. Grasping the hilt, he drew it from its sheath.

“I… I do not believe that. You gods have given me an immense gift. It is you who desire my victory.”

The sword was unlike any other: its blade completely transparent, bordered by two luminous beams of light along its edges—clearly a divine object. As the woman gazed at the weapon of rare beauty, she sighed.

“The gods desire nothing, prince. They only observe events and judge. They watch your behavior with curiosity, analyze your choices. And they make proposals.”

The man turned toward her.

“Do you have a proposal for me, divine daughter of Memory?”

“Yes, prince. I intend to make you win tomorrow’s battle. But on one condition.”

“Enlighten me, divine one.”

“I want you men to forget us.”

The man’s expression changed. His face revealed growing curiosity as she continued.

“The place of us gods is no longer with you mortals. You know better than I that new faiths have taken root in the Empire: use them, prince. Your soldiers no longer believe in us. You need a strong sign. Convert—and use the power I will give you to allow us to disappear.”

The man stood incredulous when the woman finished speaking.

“Divine Clio, what you say grieves me deeply. You are asking me to renounce you gods—you who have led me to all my victories?”

“Victories have a price, prince.”

He sighed and hesitated, but at last seemed convinced.

“So be it, divine one. Allow me, however, to ask to which faith you would have me convert. What is this belief so powerful that it will allow my men to triumph tomorrow?”

The woman smiled.

“Look at the sky through the gift we gods have given you, prince.”

At first he did not understand, but he saw that she was pointing at the sword in his hand. He raised it toward the sky, where the sun had now given way to countless stars. He began to look through the glass of the blade—and suddenly something magical occurred: the beams of light along the edges of the sword, once parallel, crossed each other.

The woman smiled again and pronounced solemn words:

“By this sign, you shall conquer.”

May 20, 337 A.D.

“A strong sign.”

The man remembered that night, now decades past. He remembered the greatness of Rome, the crushing victory over his enemy, the splendor of his entrance into the most important city in the world, the way the Senate had welcomed him. Now all of that was distant. He prayed alone in a small church not far from the Sea of Marmara, in Anatolia. More than anything, he remembered the woman who had made it all possible.

“It has been some time, hasn’t it, prince?”

Those ringing words instantly brought that distant time into the present. He turned and, without much surprise, saw once more the woman he had been thinking of—unchanged after all these years, magnificent in her splendid garments.

“I knew you would return, divine Clio, daughter of Memory.”

His voice, however, was very different—dimmed—his body weakened by severe illness.

“I know you are not at peace with yourself,” she said.

“No, goddess. I am about to do something I already regret. I am about to seal my soul to a faith in which I do not believe.”

“But you wish to do it, do you not?”

“I must. For my people. As you yourself said years ago, a strong sign is necessary. But what I want you to know is that I have never stopped believing in you, my goddess.”

“I appreciate that. But a man like you must do what is best for his people. Do what you must, Emperor of the Romans.”

And so, once again, that splendid woman vanished.

The man rose and, with difficulty, reached the church entrance, where others were waiting.

“Faithful Flavius, my health is failing. I would ask one final thing of you.”

Now deprived of all strength, the man lay upon a bed.

“What do you ask?” said a figure in the shadows seated nearby.

The man answered in a faint voice, and the other—though not without some hesitation—nodded and took a metal basin. Then he began to speak aloud.

“I baptize you in the name of the Father…” he said, pouring water from the basin onto his forehead. “…and of the Son…” he repeated the gesture. “…and of the Holy Spirit.”

The priest paused and looked at the dying man in the bed. Then he continued:

“I pray to you, holy Lord, almighty Father, eternal God: grant that your servant Flavius Valerius Aurelius Constantine Augustus, known as Constantine I, emperor of all the Romans, who in the night discovered the harshness of this world, may see the path of truth and knowledge of your Name. Open the eyes of his heart—you who alone are Father of the Son and Son of the Father and of the Holy Spirit, fruit of the confession of faith—here in this world that awaits an eternal world. Through Christ our Lord.”

The man’s eyes were moist, trying to conceal a tear, as his mouth uttered, almost against his will:

“Amen.”

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Historical Note: Despite the many titles—including that of Augustus, which may be misleading—the protagonist of this story is the Roman Emperor Constantine I, famous for being the first Christian emperor. In the fourth century, the Roman Empire was literally in pieces, divided by Diocletian into four parts ruled by two Augusti and two Caesars (the Tetrarchy). The system soon collapsed, and Constantine, Augustus of the West, found himself fighting Maxentius, usurper of Italy and Africa. Descending from Gaul, Constantine defeated him first at Turin, then near Verona, and finally in the decisive Battle of the Milvian Bridge at Rome. It was here, according to legend, that he converted to Christianity after witnessing a celestial sign.

With the Edict of Milan that followed, he granted religious freedom throughout the Western Empire. In 324 he reunified the Roman Empire and established a new capital: Nova Roma, later renamed Constantinople (modern-day Istanbul). The authenticity of his conversion has always been debated, with many considering it a political instrument to control the increasingly powerful Christian sect. Nevertheless, Constantine regulated the Christian religion (Council of Nicaea – 325 A.D.) and allowed its peaceful fusion with pagan culture—consequences of which are still visible today, such as the celebration of Christmas on December 25, formerly a pagan festival of the Sun.

The image used is a sixteenth-century fresco by Giulio Romano depicting the historic Battle of the Milvian Bridge, portraying the celestial “sign” among the angels in the upper right.