Tertullian, On the Crown 1

The most excellent emperors have just shown their generosity: laureled veterans were being discharged from camp. Among them stood a soldier of God, steadier in his faith than the rest of the brothers—men who had presumed they could serve two masters. He alone stood bareheaded, the laurel wreath lying idle in his hand. By now the Christians' discipline was an open secret. The other soldiers began singling him out, jeering from a distance and sneering to his face. A murmur reached the tribune, and the man was summoned at once. The tribune demanded, "Why do you look so different?" He replied that he was not permitted to do as the others did. Pressed for a reason, he answered: "I am a Christian." What a glorious soldier of God! From that moment the votes were cast, the charge escalated, and the accused was hauled before the prefects. There he threw down the crushing packs, daring to be relieved of them; he shook the most wretched sentinel duty from his feet, stepping onto holy ground. He declared the sword unnecessary for the Lord's defense, and the laurel fell from his hand as well. Now, spattered with the hope of his own blood, shod with the Gospel's readiness, girded with the sharper Word of God, fully armed with the Apostle, and better crowned with the white of martyrdom, he awaits Christ's gift in prison.

Opinions flew fast after that—whether from Christians I cannot say, but certainly not from the pagans. They acted as if pushed from a cliff, steep and headlong, desperate to die, all because a man questioned about his uniform made it a matter of his Name. Alone he was brave; among so many brother-soldiers, he alone was a Christian. Clearly those who have spat on the prophecies of the same Holy Spirit now intend to refuse martyrdom too. They are muttering that their good, long peace is being endangered. I have no doubt some are already preparing to emigrate, packing bags, girding themselves for flight from city to city, since they care nothing for any other memory of the Gospel. I know their shepherds: lions in peace, deer in battle. We will settle the questions of confessions elsewhere. But right now I must meet their objection: "Where are we forbidden to be crowned?" I will tackle the concrete substance of this case so that both those who ask from anxious ignorance may be instructed and those who fight to defend the offense may be confounded—especially the crowned Christian soldiers, for whom this is the only question, as if the offense were either nonexistent or at least uncertain. It is neither; I will prove that much for now.