The Brutal Origins of the Roman Empire: Debunking Divine Rule

The political, religious, and social hierarchies that dominate the Western world today trace their roots back to Rome—but how did Rome come to rule in the first place?

Have we ever really stopped to ask where their authority comes from? Or why we still live under systems shaped by an empire that claimed divine right through blood, conquest, and myth?

Today’s blog dives straight into that uncomfortable truth.We’ll uncover how a collection of Italic tribes—pirates, warlords, and opportunists—rose to dominate the ancient world, all while cloaking themselves in false piety and pagan gods.

History remembers the Roman Empire for its grandeur and its claims of divine destiny. Yet a closer look at Rome’s beginnings and the rise of its rulers reveals a far grittier reality. From the city’s founding in blood and abduction to the warlord senators and self-deifying emperors who built an empire on slavery, the story of Rome is one of raw power; not heavenly mandate. Even as Rome later adopted Christianity and built the Vatican atop the graves of martyrs, it transformed a radical anti-imperial faith into an imperial religion serving worldly ambitions. In this in-depth exploration, we peel away the myths of divine appointment and confront the evidence: Rome’s empire; whether under Caesars or popes; was a human construct fueled by violence, propaganda, and political theology. We will examine Rome’s savage founding, the self-aggrandizing mythology of its rulers (Julius Caesar literally claimed descent from a goddess), the co-opting of Christianity into a state religion, the imperial nature of the papacy, and even uncanny parallels between biblical and Roman myths that glorify power through divine-human unions and violence. It’s time to question the dominant narrative and face the brutal truth behind Rome’s so-called “divine” authority.

Founding Rome: Tribal Brutality and the Sabine Myth

Rome was not born in glory – it was born in brutality and trickery. According to Roman legend, the city’s founder Romulus was himself the product of a divine rape: he and his twin were fathered by Mars, the god of war, upon a Vestal Virgin. Fittingly, Romulus’ own path to power began with murdering his twin brother, Remus, in a quarrel over the new city’s leadership. The early Romans then populated their city by opening it as an asylum for outcasts – in effect, a gathering of refugees, fugitives, and rogues with few women among them. Desperate to secure wives and future citizens, Romulus first tried to arrange marriages with neighbouring tribes, but the Romans’ lawless reputation made the neighbours reject these overtures. What came next lays bare the violent origins of Rome’s society.

The Rape of the Sabine Women (1639–1640) by Rubens

The rape of the Sabine Women dramatizes the abduction of the Sabine women – a pivotal episode in Rome’s founding myth. As the legend goes, Romulus invited the Sabines (a neighbouring Italic tribe) to a festival in honour of Neptune, only to spring an ambush. At a prearranged signal, Roman youths rushed in and seized the young women of the Sabines while their men looked on in horror. Livy recounts that most of the maidens were violently carried off, with some of the prettiest reserved as prizes for Rome’s elite. This brazen act of theft, rape, and betrayal sparked a war with the outraged Sabine fathers.

The aftermath of the Sabine abduction, however, was spun into a story of reconciliation and unity. As Livy and others tell it, the kidnapped Sabine women eventually made peace with their fate – even intervening to stop the war between their Sabine kin and their new Roman husbands. The two peoples agreed to unite under a joint rule, with Romulus sharing power with the Sabine king Titus Tatius, effectively merging the tribes. Roman tradition even holds that Rome’s second king, Numa Pompilius, was a Sabine, reflecting this early amalgamation of peoples. In Roman eyes, this myth served to justify their dominion: a brutal act transformed into a foundational moment of social cohesion and expansion. But strip away the romantic veneer, and the kernel of the story is stark: Rome’s origin was a tale of organized rape and military intimidation, not divine ordinance.

Archaeology and early history lend credence to aspects of this tale. The Sabines were indeed a real Italic people of the Apennine region who interacted with early Rome through both trade and conflict. While the specific “Rape of the Sabine Women” is legendary, scholars view it as a symbolic memory of how Rome actually grew – by absorbing neighbouring populations (often forcibly) in an era of tribal warfare. Rather than an exalted beginning, Rome’s birth was one violent scramble for survival and dominance. The Romans themselves, in recording these myths, tacitly admitted that their state was founded on force, not on any noble or sacred covenant. This brutal genesis undercuts any later claims that Rome’s authority was ordained by heaven – from day one, it was secured by the sword.

Rise of the Ruling Class: War, Slavery, and Self-Deification

If Rome’s founding was brutal, the rise of its ruling class was sheer ruthless ambition draped in the robes of piety. The Republic and early Empire were governed by those who gained power through warfare, enslavement of conquered peoples, and ceaseless propaganda. Far from being divinely appointed shepherds of the people, the generals-turned-consuls-turned-emperors were more like predators—and they knew it. To soften their image and legitimize their rule, these rulers cleverly crafted myths that deified themselves and their ancestors.

The expansion of Rome was essentially an endless campaign of conquest. Roman generals and senators enriched themselves by pillaging foreign lands and enslaving tens of thousands. Julius Caesar’s conquest of Gaul (58–50 BC) is a stark example: ancient sources claim that over a million Gauls were killed and another million sold into slavery during Caesar’s campaigns. (Even if these numbers are exaggerated, the scale of slaughter and enslavement was enormous.) Such wars funneled countless slaves and immense wealth to the Roman elite, financing their political careers and monumental building projects. The very forums and temples of Rome were often built with war booty and forced labour – ironic monuments to “civilization” erected on the backs of the vanquished.

Rome’s rulers maintained power not only through military force, but through systematic political propaganda designed to legitimize their authority. One of the most effective tools was the deliberate use of ancestral myth to assert divine favor and status. Prominent Roman families, including the Julii, strategically traced their lineage to legendary figures in order to elevate their political position.

Julius Caesar is a prime example. He publicly claimed descent from Julus (Ascanius), the son of the Trojan hero Aeneas, who Roman tradition held was the son of the goddess Venus. In a funeral oration for his aunt Julia, Caesar emphasized that his family line "derived from Venus (Lucifer)," linking the Julian clan directly to divinity and the foundations of Rome. This declaration served a clear political function: it positioned Caesar not just as a Roman leader, but as someone with quasi-divine ancestry, blending royal and celestial legitimacy.

Following Caesar’s assassination in 44 BCE, the Roman Senate passed a formal decree in 42 BCE deifying him as Divus Iulius—"the Divine Julius." His adopted heir, Octavian (later Augustus), seized on this development to declare himself Divi Filius, or "Son of the Divine" (son of Satan?). This title became central to his regime's image. Official literature, statuary, and coinage under Augustus prominently featured symbols associated with Venus, Aeneas, and Mars, embedding the imperial family within a narrative of divine continuity and cosmic destiny.

This propaganda campaign was not isolated; it marked the beginning of a broader Imperial Cult, in which emperors were formally venerated as gods or semi-divine beings. Across the empire, temples were constructed, priesthoods were established, and public rituals were performed in their honour.

The emperor Domitian (r. 81–96 CE), for example, insisted on being addressed as “Dominus et Deus”—"Lord and God"—by the Senate and the public, further institutionalizing the ideology of the emperor as a divine figure. Rome was a master at curating its own image. Anything that challenged imperial legitimacy or divine pretensions was often omitted, altered, or destroyed. Erasure was as powerful a tool as the sword.

This brings us to a nearly forgotten thread in early Christian history: the Desposyni. From the Greek desposynos, meaning “belonging to the Lord,” this term referred to the blood relatives of Jesus; those descended through his family line, particularly via his brothers, like Jude and James. These individuals weren’t just family; they represented a living connection to both Jesus and the royal Davidic bloodline. In the early decades of the faith, they held leadership roles within the Jerusalem church, embodying both spiritual continuity and Messianic heritage.

According to Eusebius of Caesarea, writing in the fourth century, Domitian had two grandsons of Jude; the brother of Jesus; brought before him. These men, descendants of King David, were seen as potential threats due to the ancient expectation that a ruler from David’s line would rise. When questioned, the brothers explained that they were poor, owned no land, and were committed to a spiritual life, not rebellion. Satisfied that they posed no danger, Domitian released them.

Still, this encounter raises a deeper question. Why would the Roman emperor, who claimed divine status for himself, even bother interrogating two obscure descendants of a crucified man—unless the idea of a rival line, tied to ancient prophecy and divine legitimacy, was seen as dangerous? The theory that Domitian sought to erase the Desposyni is not confirmed by contemporary Roman documentation, but it has persisted in early Christian memory and modern scholarship alike. For early believers who viewed Rome as the enemy of the true faith, Domitian’s persecution wasn’t just political; it was spiritual warfare, targeting the very lineage that embodied God’s covenant with Israel. Later Christian sects and Gnostic groups believed that the Roman church’s rise was not a fulfillment of Christ’s mission, but a betrayal; a replacement of Jesus' own family with an empire-approved hierarchy.

If this theory holds weight, then what we see in Domitian’s actions is more than suspicion. It may have been the first imperial step in severing Christianity from its Jewish and familial roots. The Desposyni represented something ungovernable: a bloodline that Rome could not control, a spiritual authority rooted in covenant rather than conquest. Their disappearance from Christian leadership coincides eerily with the rise of an institutional church increasingly molded in Rome’s image.

This was not a mere shift in leadership. It was a redefinition of legitimacy. By removing or marginalizing the living relatives of Jesus, Rome cleared the path to replace the covenantal family with an imperial priesthood. And once again, what couldn’t be conquered by force was rewritten, suppressed, or erased; just like so much else in Rome’s carefully polished legacy.

By this period, any remaining Republican ideals were fully eroded. The emperor was not a servant of the people or a steward of the gods, but the center of a personality cult backed by military might. While public festivals, grain distributions, and gladiatorial spectacles were presented as imperial generosity, they were primarily tools of mass distraction and loyalty engineering, reinforcing obedience to the emperor’s will.

The Roman elite thus fused brute force with theological symbolism, using the machinery of religion to justify conquest and suppress dissent. Emperors were declared gods not because of miracles or moral virtue, but because they could command armies, seize wealth, and reshape public belief. Behind every golden statue and poetic ode lay campaigns of conquest, systemic slavery, and vast political manipulation. The claim of divine right masked what was, in essence, an empire built on war, propaganda, and state-sponsored myth-making.

Co-opting the Cross: Rome Turns a Radical Faith into Imperial Religion

One of history’s greatest ironies is how Rome – the empire that crucified Jesus and murdered his followers – later adopted Christianity as its official religion, effectively hijacking a radical anti-imperial faith and repurposing it to sanctify empire. Early Christianity was, at its heart, a covenantal movement that stood apart from worldly power. Jesus of Nazareth preached the coming of God’s Kingdom – a just order not of this world – and was executed by the Roman state as a rebel threat. His followers, for the first few centuries, were a marginal sect often at odds with Roman authority, refusing to worship the emperor as a god and proclaiming “Jesus is Lord” in defiance of Caesar.

The turning point came with Emperor Constantine the Great in the early 4th century. In 312 AD, as the legend goes, Constantine marched into battle under what he claimed was the sign of Christ—after seeing a blazing cross or celestial symbol in the sky accompanied by the words, “In this sign, conquer.” But what exactly did he see?

The symbol, often interpreted as a Christian cross, more closely resembled the Chi-Rho—a form that had long-standing associations with solar deities, particularly Sol Invictus, the Roman sun god Constantine publicly worshipped throughout his reign. This vision, rather than being Christian, may have been a calculated fusion of old and new—a solar revelation masked as Christian prophecy. The command, “with this sign, you will conquer,” fits far more comfortably with the imperial cult of invincible solar divinity than with the teachings of a crucified peacemaker. And if we follow the trail of ancient symbology, we find that the light-bearing figure behind many of these solar motifs was none other than Lucifer—the light bearer—who in Christian tradition becomes the archetype of false illumination and spiritual deception.

By 313 AD, Constantine issued the Edict of Milan, ending the official persecution of Christians and granting the Church favoured status. But his so-called “conversion” was far from a renunciation of pagan power. Many historians agree it was primarily a political maneuver. Constantine saw what others had missed: Christianity could be the perfect unifying tool; one God, one Emperor, one Church, all under Rome.

In the decades that followed, the underground movement founded by an executed Messiah was co-opted and reshaped by imperial interests. The faith of the poor, the persecuted, and the revolutionary was pulled upward into palaces and courts. Rome didn’t bow to Christ; it draped itself in His image, rebranded conquest as divine mission, and replaced covenant with empire. The Church became a mirror of the state, and the cross; a symbol of our redemption; was transformed into an imperial banner first seen in the sky, lit not by heaven, but by the sun god’s fire.

By 325 AD, Constantine even convened and presided over the Council of Nicaea, shaping Christian orthodoxy to serve imperial unity. In effect, the Roman imperial system put on a Christian face. The cross, once a symbol of Rome’s brutality, was paradoxically adopted as a symbol of Rome’s divine mission. As one theologian puts it, “The Empire executed Jesus with its most public and brutal method…and when the Jesus movement would not die, the Empire eventually co-opted the movement for its own purposes. That is what empires do.” Rome had stretched out its hand, and much of the Church took the bait – like Luke Skywalker shaking hands with Darth Vader, to borrow Mark Davies’ vivid analogy. By the end of the 4th century, Emperor Theodosius went further and made Christianity the official state religion (380 AD), banning pagan worship. The transformation was complete: Christianity had become the religion of the empire.

The Horror of Crucifixion

See: The Horror of Crucifixion by Michael Bird

Crucifixion was the Roman way of saying, “If you mess with us, there is no limit on the violence we will inflict upon you.”

https://michaelfbird.substack.com/p/the-horror-of-crucifixion

What did this mean in practice? It meant that the radical, inclusive message of Jesus – which had emphasized humility, nonviolence, and the equality of all souls before God – was increasingly repurposed to support the imperial status quo. Obedience to the Emperor was now cast as part of God’s plan. Imperial propagandists (including some Church leaders) shifted focus to otherworldly rewards and punishments, teaching the populace that if they obeyed Rome’s authority in this life, they would gain Heaven in the next.

The Church’s hierarchy itself took on a Roman bureaucratic form, with powerful bishops in major cities, mirroring the administrative divisions of the Empire. The Bishop of Rome, in particular, benefited from imperial favor – Constantine generously endowed the Roman church with land and wealth, even constructing a grand basilica over St. Peter’s supposed tomb.

However, the construction of the original St. Peter’s Basilica didn’t begin until around 318–322 AD, under Emperor Constantine but Peter was executed between 64 and 67 AD, meaning more than 250 years had passed—two and a half centuries—before the Roman state made any attempt to mark or protect his burial site.

Think about that.

For over 250 years, the Church was underground, often persecuted, with no legal right to build, preserve, or commemorate anything publicly. During that time, grave sites were unmarked or hidden, early Christians were hunted, and records were scarce to nonexistent. The idea that a precise, intact burial spot—complete with verifiable bones—survived untouched through centuries of imperial hostility and chaos is not only unlikely, it’s historically absurd.

By the time Constantine ordered a basilica to be built over what was claimed to be Peter’s tomb, any connection to the actual man was purely symbolic, not forensic. The truth is: Rome didn’t build over Peter’s bones. It built over a myth; a political act dressed up as reverence, meant to cement the Church’s new imperial role. There is no credible evidence tying the remains under the Vatican to the apostle himself; only tradition, hearsay, and the power of narrative.

The original basilica on this site was built in the 4th century by Emperor Constantine – directly atop the old Circus of Nero where many Christians were martyred. Constantine’s church, and the magnificent Renaissance basilica that replaced it, symbolically turned a site of persecution into the center of an imperial faith. This physical transformation of Rome’s landscape – from pagan temples and bloody arenas to churches and shrines – epitomizes how the empire refashioned itself as the “Christian Empire.”

Critically, Jesus’s message of resistance to imperial violence was largely defanged in this new context. As one commentator observes, “That Christianity became an imperial religion is antithetical to everything Jesus lived and taught… The Empire eventually co-opted the movement for its own purposes”. Moving into the Middle Ages, the Roman Empire in the West may have fallen, but the Roman Church remained, carrying forward the idea of a universal Roman authority now under spiritual guise. This set the stage for the emergence of the papacy – an institution that would claim divine sanction even as it operated as a new form of imperial power.

The Papacy: Divine Institution or Imperial Power Play?

The papacy – the office of the Bishop of Rome, who came to be recognized as the pope, supreme head of the "Catholic" Church.

Catholic doctrine holds that the papacy was established by Christ himself when Jesus said to Peter, “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church… I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 16:18–19). The pope is thus presented as Peter’s successor, the Vicar of Christ on Earth, wielding authority by divine mandate.

But to what extent does this narrative match history?

If we strip away the centuries of institutional layering and approach it with clarity, a very different picture begins to emerge. The early Christian movement was not a monarchy. It was a decentralized, community-led network grounded in eyewitness testimony and covenantal fidelity. And that raises a critical point: true apostolic succession, in the biblical and historical sense, required firsthand knowledge of Jesus’ life, ministry, death, and resurrection. That was the standard set for apostleship in Acts 1:21–22.

So who actually met that standard?

Certainly not the Roman bishops who rose to prominence centuries later, with no direct connection to Christ or his original followers. The ones who did meet the criteria were Jesus' own family; his brothers and sisters; those collectively known as the Desposyni ("belonging to the Lord").

Among them, James the Just, Jesus’ brother, stands out as a central figure. Far from being peripheral, James became the leader of the Jerusalem church; the heart of the Jesus movement in the first century. According to Mark 15:40, James’ sister Salome was also present at the crucifixion, and in Mark 16:1, she is named again as one of the women; alongside Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of James; who went to the tomb after Jesus’ death. These weren’t outsiders. They were family, eyewitnesses, and covenant-bearers.

In the Gospel of Mark, we’re introduced to a figure whose identity has been softened over time by tradition, but whose role is far more central than many have been led to believe: James the Less. Mark 15:40 names him directly as the son of Mary—“Mary the mother of James the less and of Joses”—who stood near the crucifixion, watching from a distance. The Greek phrase Iakobos ho mikros literally translates to “James the younger” or “James the small.” For centuries, this label has been interpreted as a reference to physical stature or relative importance, but the evidence suggests something much deeper: it was likely used to distinguish him not just from another James, but perhaps even from Jesus himself—his older brother.

This James is no minor figure. Early Christian tradition and scriptural references link him closely to James the son of Alphaeus, one of the Twelve. But the more historically and theologically compelling identification is with James the Just, referred to by Paul in Galatians 1:19 as “James, the Lord’s brother.” If these two are one and the same; and the textual and linguistic evidence strongly suggests they are; then we are not speaking of a distant follower, but of a blood relative of Jesus, a man who lived with him, learned from him, witnessed his crucifixion, and led the church in Jerusalem after his resurrection.

The connection becomes even more undeniable when we consider the name Joses, mentioned alongside James in Mark 15:40. Joses, a shortened form of Joseph, appears again in Mark 6:3, where Jesus is named as the brother of James, Joses, Judas, and Simon, along with several unnamed sisters. This cannot be ignored. The Mary of Mark 15:40; mother of James the Less and Joses; is either Mary the mother of Jesus herself, or at the very least, a member of the same household. The text is not speaking in metaphor or theological code. The original Greek uses adelphos; a term that unambiguously means blood brother, not cousin, stepbrother, or spiritual sibling. There are separate Greek words for those relationships (anepsios for cousin, for example), and they are not used here. This was Jesus’ immediate family.

Which leads to a stark and unavoidable conclusion: James the Less was Jesus’ younger brother.

That fact changes the foundation of Christian history.

It means that the Desposyni; Jesus’ blood family; were not peripheral to the gospel story. They were central. They were present at the crucifixion. They were the first at the tomb. They led the Church in its infancy. James the Less, Salome, and the other family members of Christ weren’t spectators; they were the true heirs of the mission, witnesses to the ministry, death, and resurrection of Jesus, and custodians of the earliest community of believers.

And yet, they were erased.

Not because they failed. Not because they were forgotten. But because their very existence posed a threat to the imperial narrative that would later dominate the Church. As the Roman Church grew in wealth and political influence, it began rewriting the past to consolidate power. The doctrine of apostolic succession, which claims an unbroken chain from Peter to the pope, ignores the plain biblical truth that apostleship required firsthand experience of Christ’s life and resurrection (Acts 1:21–22). James the Less fit that requirement. So did the women at the tomb. The bishops of Rome did not.

By the time the Roman Church constructed its hierarchy, the Desposyni had been deliberately buried; both in memory and in influence. Apostolic authority was hijacked. It moved from the living body of Jesus’ family in Jerusalem to the golden halls of Rome. The Church ceased to be a movement of the poor, the persecuted, and the prophetic; and became an instrument of imperial control. The language of brotherhood was replaced by that of dominion.

To call him “James the Less” is a tragic irony. In the eyes of Christ, and in the record of Scripture, he was greater than any who would later claim to sit on a Roman throne in Christ’s name. He was family. He was present. He was faithful to the very end. And if there is any true lineage of spiritual authority, it does not flow through marble cathedrals or papal decrees. It flows from the blood of the crucified through the blood of his kin, through those who stood at the cross and walked to the tomb; not those who built empires in his absence.

Apostolic succession, if it means anything at all, begins not in Rome, but in Jerusalem. And it begins not with Peter’s confession, but with Christ’s own family, who bore witness to everything Rome later tried to control, sanitize, or steal.

"There were also women looking on afar off: among whom was Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James the less and of Joses, and Salome;"

 — Mark 15:40, KJV

To ignore their role is to ignore the foundation of the movement itself.

Yet, Rome did exactly that.

Over time, as Christianity was absorbed into the imperial system, the Desposyni were increasingly marginalized, suppressed, or erased. Apostolic authority was redefined; not by presence at Pentecost or fidelity to Christ’s teachings; but by institutional lineage and imperial approval. The Bishop of Rome eventually claimed to be Peter’s successor, despite no scriptural basis for a papal office and no historical continuity with the actual apostles.

Historical evidence confirms that in the first century or two of Christianity, there was no centralized papacy. The church in Rome was initially led by a group of elders (presbyters) rather than a single bishop with universal authority. It wasn’t until well into the second century that we see the emergence of a singular “bishop of Rome,” and not until several centuries later was that figure regarded as the supreme head of the global Church.

To the earliest Christians—those who knew the apostles personally or followed in their direct footsteps; the idea of one man in Rome ruling over all of Christendom would have sounded not just foreign, but offensive. Leadership was relational, local, and rooted in witness, not hierarchy or imperial power. The concept of a pope was not handed down from heaven; it was manufactured over time, shaped by the very empire that had once crucified their Messiah and persecuted his followers.

And thus, the uncomfortable truth: the papacy is not the continuation of apostolic authority; it is its replacement. The real holders of the Jesus movement were not enthroned in marble halls. They were his family, his friends, the poor, the persecuted, and the prophets; those who knew him, walked with him, and carried the message before empire dressed it in robes and gold.

So how did the Bishop of Rome rise to pre-eminence? The answer lies in political and historical developments, especially after Constantine. As the Western Roman Empire crumbled in the 5th century, the Roman Church (and its bishop) filled the vacuum of authority in Italy. Popes like Leo the Great (440–461 AD) asserted increasing leadership, negotiating with barbarian warlords and positioning themselves as heirs to Rome’s mantle. By the 8th century, the papacy actively sought alliances with new Western powers.

In 754 AD, pope Stephen II did not act as a servant of Christ; he struck a backroom deal with a warlord. In a bold act of political theater, he crowned Pepin the Short, the Frankish king, not by divine command but in exchange for military protection. Two years later, in 756 AD, Pepin “donated” vast territories in central Italy to the pope; a land grab now known as the Donation of Pepin. This was not a spiritual covenant; it was a political transaction that turned the pope from a shepherd into a sovereign, a religious figurehead into a territorial monarch. With no ordination from God, no apostolic precedent, and no mandate from Christ, the papacy seized the crown of Caesar under the guise of Peter; and the Church became an empire in priest’s clothing.This was the birth of the Papal States, where the pope ruled as a king over territory. It is crucial to note: such developments were not about spiritual mandate, but about political power and mutual advantage. The pope gained an army and lands; the Frankish kings gained the Church’s endorsement (a divine rubber-stamp on their rule).

The imperial character of the papacy became even more blatant through outright forgeries and grabs for authority. A notorious example is the Donation of Constantine, a document forged in the 8th or 9th century which purported that Emperor Constantine (back in the 4th century) had granted the pope supremacy over the Western Roman Empire and even the imperial insignia. In this fake decree, Constantine allegedly ceded to pope Sylvester “the city of Rome and all the provinces, districts and cities of Italy and the western regions,” elevating the pope above every earthly ruler. For centuries, the papacy used this forgery as justification for its claims of authority over kings, insisting it could grant or remove a monarch’s right to rule. It was a masterstroke of imperial ideology: the Church declaring itself the true heir of Rome’s empire. (This fraud was so effective that it wasn’t exposed as a forgery until the 15th century, and the Church only publicly admitted it in the 20th century!) The very existence of such a document shows how far the papacy went in crafting a narrative of divine-right dominion.

By the High Middle Ages, the Pope was often described in terms fitting an emperor. He was called the “Pontifex Maximus” – a title lifted straight from the pagan Roman emperors’ chief priestly title. The pope wore a triple crown (tiara) symbolizing worldly dominion, and some medieval churchmen even styled the pope “the arbiter of the world.” The papacy built its own palace-fortress (the Vatican), armies, and court intrigue, behaving as a major player in the game of thrones. When pope Leo III crowned Charlemagne as “Emperor of the Romans” in 800 AD, it was both a revival of the Western Empire and a bold papal statement – that imperial power flowed from the pope’s approval. All of these moves point to a sobering conclusion: the papacy was as much an imperial construct as a spiritual office. It developed through historical circumstance, political savvy, and sometimes deceit, rather than descending fully-formed from a mandate of Jesus.

None of this is to deny the sincere spiritual leadership some popes provided, or the religious significance the office holds for Catholics. But it is to challenge the notion that the papacy is infallibly divine in origin. The early “covenantal” tradition of Christianity emphasized a direct relationship between God and His people – a community guided by the Holy Spirit and accountable to Scripture and councils. The papacy, as it evolved, often supplanted that with a centralized authority structure remarkably similar to an empire. Critics have long argued that this “Petrine” throne in Rome was a clever invention to maintain power, cloaked in sanctity. During the Reformation, Protestants pointed out that the Bible’s only mention of Peter’s role says nothing of him becoming a prince of the whole church; they saw the imperial-style papacy as a distortion of the humble leadership Jesus modelled (“The greatest among you should be like the youngest, and the one who rules like the one who serves,” Jesus said – Luke 22:26). History seems to validate some of those critiques: from the corrupt Borgia popes wielding secular power to the Papal States engaging in war, the papacy looked every bit like a continuation of Roman imperial ambition, draped in ecclesiastical robes.

In sum, the papacy’s aura of divine appointment was carefully cultivated. But behind it lies a very human history of pragmatic deals, doctrinal power-plays, and even fabricated “history” to bolster Rome’s authority. The imperial DNA of Rome did not disappear when Rome “became Christian” – it was passed on to the Church’s hierarchy. Thus, the idea of the pope as a uniquely holy ruler by God’s decree must be weighed against the record of how that office actually came to wield such immense power. It looks less like a straight line down from Heaven and more like a long game of thrones, rooted firmly in the soil of empire.

And still, to this day, millions who claim the name of Christ kneel before the very empire that executed him. They venerate its institutions, defend its traditions, and worship in its image—blind to the blood it spilled, the truth it buried, and the souls it enslaved. This empire didn’t just kill the Son of God; it trampled his Sabbath, silenced his family, hunted his followers, and burned the reformers alive for daring to speak truth. All of it; every golden robe, every throne, every false decree; was built not for the glory of God, but for the wealth, power, and control of men who sold heaven to fund their palaces.

What they call faith is a lie draped in robes. What they call holy is the machinery of spiritual enslavement.

Sources:

• Livy, Ab Urbe Condita, on Rome’s early history and the abduction of the Sabine women.

• Plutarch, Life of Romulus and Life of Caesar, and Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars, for accounts of Rome’s foundation myths and Julius Caesar’s divine lineage claims.

• Archaeological and historical analyses of early Rome and Italic peoples (e.g. History Skills Classroom resources on the Sabines).

• Julius Caesar’s own words (as recorded by Suetonius) proclaiming descent from Venus, and the Senate’s act of deifying Caesar (42 BC).

• Evidence of Rome’s conquest-driven expansion: Plutarch’s estimate of casualties in Caesar’s Gallic Wars.

• Mark Y. A. Davies, “Refusing the Hand of the Empire” (2016) – a theological critique of Constantine’s co-option of Christianity.

• Historical data on Emperor Constantine’s building of Old St. Peter’s Basilica in the 4th century.

• Wikipedia, “Papal Supremacy,” summarizing scholarly consensus on the late emergence of a single bishop in Rome and the development of papal power.

• World History Encyclopedia, “Donation of Constantine,” on the medieval forgery used to bolster papal authority.

• Biblical text (Genesis 6:1–4) and commentary on the Nephilim and ancient tyrants.

• Comparative myth insights from various scholars highlighting the intersection of divine-human union myths and the legitimation of rulers or heroes.