Priscus: That is the way it happened. At least that is the way Julian says it happened. As you must gather, he omits a number of details. To read his account one would think that there had been no resistance at all to him, other than from the wicked Constantius. This was hardly true. I should say that a majority of the “responsible” men in the empire preferred Constantius to Julian, nor was this on religious grounds, since Julian’s passion for Hellenism was not generally known as of November 361. I am sure you will want to state matters as they actually were. Your famous balance would be seriously deranged if you were to record that Julian’s success was the result of a popular uprising against Constantius. It was not-despite the impression you gave in your justly celebrated oration at the time of Julian’s death. But then the great wings of a memorial, like those of a panegyric, are not expected to be clipped by tedious fact.
Libanius: How typical!
Priscus: Julian notes in passing that he sent various messages to different cities. Indeed he did! He must have composed at least a dozen lengthy harangues, addressed variously to the senates at Rome and Constantinople—a not unnatural precaution—but then an equal number of apologias were sent to such cities as Corinth and Sparta, as if they still mattered in the scale of power. Their poor backwoods town councils must have been astonished to receive an emperor’s homage.
I was present at the senate in Athens when the message to us was read. Since I know that you want only the truth, I must tell you that the letter was not well received, and of all cities Athens was most inclined to Julian.
I sat beside Prohaeresius while the message was read. The old man was amused, but cautious. So was I. Of course, everyone in Athens was aware that I had only recently come from Julian; even so, I was firm in saying that I knew nothing of his plans. I even praised Constantius on several public occasions.
After all, Constantius might have lived. Julian might have been defeated. I might have been executed for treason. Like everyone else, I prefer to avoid undue distress at the hands of tyrants.
We were all quite nervous at the beginning of the message. (If you don’t have a copy of this address, I will send you mine, free of charge.) Naturally, we were flattered by Julian’s references to our ancient past, as well as respectful of his quite skilful mastery of rhetoric, even though he was prone to cliches, especially when he was tired or writing too fast. He could seldom prepare a message without “Xerxes defying nature”, or trotting out that damned “oak tree” which no contemporary writer seems able to avoid.
But after a good beginning, Julian then denounced Constantius. He named all the murders. He made a point of Constantius’s infertility (not knowing that Constantius’s new wife Faustina was pregnant). He denounced the eunuchs, particularly Eusebius. He gave us a considerable autobiography, generally accurate, ending with the statement that he was now in the field because no one could trust the word of Constantius, since it was, he declared (relying again on a familiar phrase), “written in ashes”. At this point the senators of Athens began to clear their throats and scuff their sandals on the floor, always a bad sign.
At the end of the message there was no discussion. The senate, wisely, went on to other matters. No one had the courage to behave as the senate at Rome did when they were read their letters, and Tertullus, the city’s prefect, shouted, “We demand reverence for Constantius, who raised you up!”
When the senate adjourned, Prohaeresius and I left the chamber together. No one spoke to anyone else. Then—as now—the secret service was ubiquitous. We knew nothing except that Julian was somewhere in the Balkans, that the West appeared to be his, and that Constantius was moving against him with a superior army.
It was not easy to know how to behave. Our sort is for ever courted by usurpers and asked to join in this or that undertaking. Since no one can know the future, it is quite easy to pick the wrong side. The death of Maximus was instructive, wasn’t it, old friend?
But of course we are all so used to these sudden changes in government that there is almost an etiquette in how one responds to invitations which could as easily turn out disastrous as advantageous.
First, one appears to ponder the request with grave attention; then one pleads a personal problem; finally, one does nothing. That is how you and I have managed to live to be so old in such a stormy time.
I recall vividly my walk with Prohaeresius. It must have been some time in the second week of November. The weather was cold, the wind sharp, the afternoon clouds more thick than usual. Absently, Prohaeresius put his arm through mine. We hurried through the crowd which had gathered outside the senate house.
Not till we were past the temple of Hephaestos did he speak. “You know him. What will happen?”
“I think he will win.”
“How can he? Constantius has the army. The people are with him. They’re certainly not with your…
our young student. The senate’s mood was perfectly plain.”
“I think he will win, that’s all.” But I was by no means as confident as I sounded.
“The oracles…” But the old man stopped. He was not about to give himself away to me. “Come home with me.”
I accepted, not yet eager for Hippia’s company. My marriage, always unhappy, was at this time unbearable: Hippia was still furious at me for having spent nearly three years in Paris, despite the money I had been able to send her. Today, however, after fifty years of mutual loathing, we are quite dependent on one another. Habit is stronger than hate.
I was surprised to find Macrina at Prohaeresius’s house. She had not been much in evidence since the birth of her child (ostensibly sired by the businessman husband). She had gained a little weight, which was attractive. Macrina greeted us in the inner court. She was ecstatic. “It’s happened! He’s all right!”
“What has happened? Who is all right?” Prohaeresius was irritable.
“Julian is Emperor!”
That is how we got the news at Athens. Apparently, the formal message to the senate had been delayed. But Julian had written Prohaeresius and me, taking it for granted that we had already heard the news. We were both invited to attend him at Constantinople.
Macrina was exultant. “We must all go to court. Every one of us. We’ll all live in Constantinople. No more Athens. No more grubby students…”
“No more grubby husband?” I could not resist this. She stopped talking.
Prohaeresius, who had been studying the letter, frowned. “He says, ‘I worship the true gods openly and all the troops with me worhsip them. I have offered the gods many oxen as thank-offerings for my victory, and I shall soon restore their worship in all its purity.’” The old man looked at us grimly. “So he means to do what he said he would do.”
“Why not?” Macrina was sharp. “He can’t be worse than the bishops.”
“Except that now he’s Emperor there won’t be an ox left in the world!” I believe I was the first to make what was soon a universal joke: Julian’s sacrifices were so rich that he was nicknamed
“BullBurner”.
Unlike Macrina and me, Prohaeresius was in a dark mood. “I see only trouble for us,” he said.
“Trouble? When you are the man the Emperor most admires?”
Macrina was unbelieving. “Nonsense. It’ll be the making of all you schoolteachers. He’ll be another Marcus Aurelius. Well, Septimus Severus, anyway.”
“Julian is better than Marcus Aurelius,” I said, and I meant it. Marcus Aurelius has been enormously overrated as a philosopher. People—especially scholars—are so thrilled that an emperor can even write his own name that they tend to exaggerate the value of his literary productions. If you or I had written those Meditations, they would not, I am certain, be considered of any great value. They are certainly inferior to your own superb pensdes. Not for several weeks did we know the details of Constantius’s death, or in what manner the succession had been assured. Julian gives his version of what happened.
Julian Augtustus
As far as I can make out, Constantius had been in poor health for some months. He had chronic stomach trouble, a family weakness from which I alone seem to be exempt (so far!). As soon as I had been given the news, I sent everyone out of the room except Oribasius. Then the two officers from the Consistory were brought to me. My first question was the obvious one: “How did he die?”
“Of a fever, Augustus.” The older officer, Aligildus, did most of t.he telling.
“Had there been omens?” I particularly wanted to know because I had myself received a number of mysterious signs during the previous weeks. It is good to be scientific about these things. Might not an omen observed to be malign by Constantius appear simultaneously to me as benign?
“Many, Augustus. For several weeks in the field he had been disturbed by waking-dreams and nightmares. On one occasion, he thought he saw the ghost of his father, the great Constantine, carrying in his arms a child, a handsome, strong child which Constantius took and held on his lap.”
I turned with wonder to Oribasius. “Is Constantine my creator?”
For it was plain enough that I was the child in the dream.
“Then the boy seized the orb Constantius held in his right hand…”
“The world,” I murmured.
“… and threw it out of sight!” Aligildus paused. I nodded. “I understand the dream. Did he?”
“Yes, Augustus. Shortly afterwards, when we came to Antioch, the Emperor told Eusebius that he had a sense that something which had always been with him was gone.”
“The Spirit of Rome. These are the signs,” I said to Oribasius. Like so many who deal too much in the material world, Oribasius puts little stock in omens and dreams. Yet I think even he was impressed by what he had heard. I quoted Menander, “A spirit is given each man at birth to direct his course.”
Then I asked about my cousin’s last days.
“He spent most of the summer at Antioch, assembling an army to…” Aligildus paused, ill at ease.
“To use against me.” I was amiable. Why not? Heaven was on my side.
“Yes, Lord. Then in the autumn, after many dreams and bad omens, Constanfius left Antioch for the north. Three miles outside of the city in a suburb…”
“Called Hippocephalus,” said Theolaif, the other officer, reminding us that he too was messenger and witness. “We saw, on the right-hand side of the road, at noon, the headless corpse of a man [acing west.”
A chill ran through me. I hope that when my star falls I shall be spared the torment of such signs.
“From that moment on, Lord, the Emperor was not himself. We hurried on to Tarsus, where he came down with a fever.”
“But he could not stop,” said Theolaif, suddenly inspired: the deaths of princes and the malignity of Fate obsess us all. “I know. I was with him. I rode beside him. I said, ‘Lord, stop here. Wait.
In a few days you will be well.’ But he looked at me with glazed eyes, his face dark with fever. He swayed in the saddle. I steadied him with my hand and felt his hand, hot and dry. ‘No,’ he said, and his tongue was dry, too. He could hardly speak. ‘We go on. We go on. We go on.’ Three times he said that.
And we went on.”
Aligildus continued, “When we came to the springs at Mobsucrene, he was delirious. We put him to bed. In the night he sweated and the next morning he seemed better. He gave orders to leave. We obeyed, reluctantly. But when the army was ready to move, he was delirious. Constantius was ill three days, his body so hot that it was painful to touch him. Yet he had moments of clarity. In one of those moments, he made his will. This is it.” Aligildus handed me a sealed letter which I did not open.“How was he, at the end?”
“When he was conscious, he was angry.”
“At me?”
“No, Lord, at death, for taking him in his prime, for taking him from his young wife.”
“It is bitter,” I said formally. Who is so inhuman as not to feel something at a man’s death? even at that of an enemy.
“Then, shortly before dawn on 3 November, he asked to be baptized, like his father. After the ceremony, he tried to sit up. He tried to speak. He choked. He died. He was forty-five years old,” added Aligildus, as though he were making a funeral address.
“In the twenty-fifth year of his principate,” I noted, in the same style.
“Pray, Augustus,” said Oribasius suddenly, “you reign as long.”
We were silent for a moment. I tried to remember how Constantius looked and failed. When a famous man dies one tends to remember only the sculpture, especially when there is so much of it. I can recall Constantius’s monuments but not his living face, not even those great dark eyes which are to my memory blank spaces cut in marble.
“Where is the Chamberlain Eusebius?”
“Still at the Springs. The court waits upon your orders.” Aligildus for the first time sounded uncertain. “You, Augustus, are the heir legitimate.” He pointed to the letter that I held in my hand.
“There was no… objection in the Consistory?”
“None, Lord!” The two men spoke as one.
I rose. “Tomorrow you will return to the Springs. Tell the Consistory that I shall meet them as soon as possible at Constantinople.
See that the body of my cousin is brought home for a proper burial, and that his widow is treated with all the honour due her rank.”
The officers saluted, and departed.
Then Oribasius and I opened the will. It was short and to the point, unlike the usual imperial prose.
One knew that a man had dictated it, not a lawyer.
“The Caesar Julian at my death is raised legitimately” (even on his deathbed he could not resist this jab) “to the principate of Rome. He will find my stewardship has been faithful. Despite much treason within the empire and formidable enemies without, the state has prospered in my reign and the borders are secure.”
I looked at Oribasius, amused. “I wonder how they feel about that in Amida.”
I read on. “We entrust to our most noble cousin and heir our young wife Faustina. She is provided for in a separate testament, and it is our final prayer that our most noble cousin and heir will respect the
terms of that will and carry them out as befits a great prince who can afford to show mercy to the weak…”
I paused. “Once I tried to make that same speech to him.”
Oribasius looked at me oddly. “He spared you,” he said.
“Yes. To his regret.” I hurried through the rest of the document. There were a number of bequests to retainers and friends. One particularly struck me. “I cannot recommend to my most noble cousin and heir a wiser counsellor or one more loyal than the Grand Chamberlain Eusebius.” Even Oribasius laughed at this. Then, at the very last, Constantius spoke directly to me. “We have had differences, the Caesar Julian and I, but I think that he will find when he fills my place that the earth seems not so big as he thought it was from his previous place or from any other place, saving this summit where there can be but one man and a single responsibility for all men, and great decisions to be made, often in haste and sometimes regretted. We are not to be understood by any except our own kind. My most noble cousin and heir will know what I mean when he takes up the orb I have let go. Now in death I am his constant brother in the purple and from whatever place God sees fit to put my soul I shall observe his deeds with fellow-feeling and hope that as he comes to know the singularity of his new estate—and its cruel isolation—he will understand if not forgive his predecessor, who wanted only the stability of the state, the just execution of the law, and the true worship of that God from whom come all our lives and to whom all must return. Julian, pray for me.”
That was it. Oribasius and I looked at one another, unable to believe that this crude and touching document was the work of a man who had governed the world for a quarter century.
“He was strong.” I could think of nothing more to say. The next day I ordered a sacrifice to the gods.
The legions were most enthusiastic, not only at my accession (and the avoidance of a civil war), but at being allowed to pray to the old gods openly. Man7 of them were fellow brothers in Mithras.
Priscus: This is quite untrue. In actual fact there was a near-mutiny when the sacrifices were ordered, especially among the officers. At this time Julian was very much under the influence of a Gaul named Aprunculus, who had foretold Constantius’s death by discovering an ox liver with two lobes, which meant that… et cetera. As a reward for having found that double liver, Aprunculus was made governor of Gallia Narbonensis. It was said at the time that a quadruple liver might have got him all of Gaul.
Aprunculus persuaded Julian to place the images of the gods next to his own image so that when each man came to throw incense on the fire as homage to the emperor, he also did reverence, like it or not, to the gods. This caused a good deal of bad feeling, none of which Julian notes.
Julian Augustus
Less than a week later, I gave the order to proceed to Constantinople. I will not dwell on the elation of those days. Even the cold winter—and it was the coldest in many years—did not depress us.
In a blizzard, we filed through the pass of Succi and descended into Thrace. From there we proceeded to the ancient city of Philippopolis where we stayed overnight. Then we moved south to Heraclea, a town fifty miles south-west of Constantinople where, shortly before midday, to my astonishment, most of the senate and the Sacred Consistory were gathered in the main square.
I was hardly prepared for such a greeting. I was tired, dirty, and I desperately needed to relieve myself. Imagine then the new emperor, eyes twitching with fatigue, hands, legs, face streaked with dust, bladder full, receiving the slow, measured, stately acclamation of the senate. Looking back, I laugh; at the time, I was hard pressed to be gracious.
I dismounted at one end of the square and crossed to the prefect’s house. The Scholarian Guards
made an aisle for me. They are called Scholarian because their barracks are in the front porticothe
“school”—of the Sacred Palace. I studied my new troops with a cold eye. They were smartly turned out; most were Germans… what else? They studied me, too. They were both curious and alarmed, which is as it should be. Too often in the past emperors have been frightened of the guard.
I climbed the steps to the prefect’s house. There, all in a row, were the officers of the empire. As I approached, they fell to their knees. I asked them to rise. I hate the sight of men old enough to be my grandfather prostrate before me. Recently I tried to simplify the court’s ceremonies but the senate would not allow it, so used are they to servitude. They argue that since the Great King of Persia keeps similar state, I must, too, or appear less awesome in men’s eyes. Nonsense. But there are too many important changes to be made to worry about court ceremonial.
The first official to greet me was Arbetio, who had been consul in the year I was made Caesar. He is a vigorous, hard-faced man of forty; born a peasant, he became a soldier, rising to commander of cavalry and the consulship. He wants my place, just as he wanted Constantius’s place. Now there are two ways to handle such a man. One is to kill him. The other is to keep him near one, safely employed, always watched. I chose the latter for I have found that if someone is reasonably honest and well-meaning-though he has treated one badly—he should be forgiven. When men are honest in public life we must be on good terms with them, even though they have treated us badly in a private capacity; while if they are dishonest in public affairs, even though they are personally devoted to us, they must be dismissed.
Arbetio welcomed me in the name of the senate, though he was not its chief officer.
“We are here to do as the Augustus wills.” The proud loud voice belied the words. “In everything.”
“… and to prepare for his entering the city as our Lord!” I turned when I heard those words and there, approaching me from a crowd of senators, was Julian, my uncle. He was trembling with excitement (and infirmity, for he suffered from a recurrent fever, souvenir of his days as governor of Egypt). I embraced him warmly. We had not seen each other for seven years, though we had corresponded as regularly as we dared. My uncle had aged alarmingly; his face was haggard, the yellow skin loose, eyes deepset, but even so, this day he was transfigured with delight. I kept my arm through his as I addressed the crowd.
“I am moved at your gesture, since it is not usual for the senate to leave their city to meet the first citizen. Rather it is the first citizen who must come to you, to his peers, who share with him the task of governing, and I shall be with you shortly in your own house to do you the homage you deserve.
Meanwhile, I make only one announcement: I shall accept no coronation money from the provinces, imitating in this Hadrian and Antoninus Plus. The Empire is too poor at present to make me a gift.”
There was applause. Then after a few more ungraceful remarks, I pleaded fatigue, and excused myself.
The town prefect bowed me into the building, stammering, stumbling, getting in my way, until at last I shouted, “In Hermes’s name, where do you piss?” Thus graciously did the new Emperor of Rome come to the East.
The prefect’s house had a small private bath and while I soaked in the hot pool, taking deep breaths of steam, my uncle Julian discussed the political situation.
“When Constantius died, Eusebius sounded out several members of the Consistory to see if they would accept Arbetio as emperor, or Procopius… or me.” My uncle smiled shyly at this. He wanted me to hear this from his own lips rather than from an informer.
“Naturally,” I said, watching the dust from my beard float like a grey cloud into the centre of the pool where a Negro slave stood, ready to scrub me with towels and sponges, unaware that I never let bath attendants touch me.
“What did the Consistory say to all this?”
“That you were the Emperor, by blood and by choice.”
“As well as being only a few hundred miles away.”
“Exactly.”
“Where is Eusebius?”
“At the palace, preparing for your arrival. He is still Grand Chamberlain.” My uncle smiled.
I submerged for a moment, eyes tight shut, soaking my head. When I came to the surface, Oribasius was sitting on the bench beside my uncle.
“That is no way to approach the sacred presence.” And I splashed Oribasius very satisfactorily. He laughed. My uncle Julian laughed, too, for I had soaked him as well. Then I was alarmed. In just this way are monsters born. First, the tyrant plays harmless games: splashes senators in the bath, serves wooden food to dinner guests, plays practical jokes; and no matter what he says and does, everyone laughs and flatters him, finds witty his most inane remarks. Then the small jokes begin to pall. One day he finds it amusing to rape another man’s wife, as the husband watches, or the husband as the wife looks on, or to torture them both, or to kill them. When the killing begins, the emperor is no longer a man but a beast, and we have had too many beasts already on the throne of the world. Vehemently,! apologized for splashing my uncle. I even apologized for splashing Oribasius, though he is like my own brother.
Neither guessed the significance of this guilty outburst. Oribasius told me that the Consistory wanted to know whom I intended to appoint as consuls for the coming year.“Uncle, what about you?”
“I can’t afford the consulship.” It was a sign of my uncle’s wealth that he always complained of poverty. Actually, the consulship is not so expensive as it used to be. Nowadays, the two consuls pool their resources for the games they must sponsor, while the emperor usually helps them from the Privy Purse.
“I don’t think you’d like it, Oribasius.”
“No, Augustus, I would not.”
“Mamertinus,” I said, swimming to the far side of the pool. Both my uncle and Oribasius approved.
“He’s a distinguished rhetorician,” said my uncle. “Of good family, a popular choice…”
“And Nevitta!” I dived under the water as I said this. When 1 came up for air, I could see that Oribasius was amused and my uncle horrified.
“But he is… he is…”
I nodded. “A Frank. A barbarian.”
I got out of the bath. The slave wrapped me in a large towel. I broke away from him before he could start pummelling me. “He is also one of our best generals. He will be a continual reminder to the East that my power rests securely in the West.”
“No one will ever accuse you of consistency.” Oribasius grinned. Only the month before at Nish, I had denounced Constantius for appointing barbarians to prefectures. Now I was making one consul.
There is nothing harder politically than to have to reverse yourself publicly. But where Constantius would rather die than ever admit to a mistake, I was quite willing to look a bit foolish, and do the right thing."
“We shall deny,” I said with much grandeur, “that I ever criticized the appointment of barbarians to high office.”
“Your letter to the Spartan senate was a forgery?”
“In every detail.”
Oribasius and I laughed but my uncle looked pained. “At least,” he said, “name only Mamertinus today. Besides, it’s the custom to name one consul at a time, so name him for the East. Later you can announce the… the other man for the West.”
“So be it, Uncle!” And together we went into the dressing-room where I put on the purple.
The Consistory was almost at full strength, some forty officers of state, who received me ceremoniously at the town hall. Arbetio escorted me to my ivory chair. To my left and right were the empty consular chairs. One for Florentius, who had-hasvanished from the face of the earth; the other for Taurus, who fled to Antioch when I first came into Illyricum.
I greeted the Consistory politely. I noted the absence of the consuls, remarking that as a new year was about to begin, there would soon be two new consuls. One would be Mamertinus. This was received with every appearance of satisfaction. I then made a number of additions to the Consistory. When I had finished, Arbetio begged to address me..Heart sinking, I granted him leave.
Slowly, solemnly, as though he were the Augustus, Arbetio moved to the centre of the room, just in front of my chair. He cleared his throat. “Lord, there are those who have plotted against you.” A sharp intake of breath was heard all round the room. After all, there was hardly a man present who had not conspired against me. It had been their duty. “Those men are still at large. Some in high places. Lord, there are also those who conspired against your most noble brother, the Caesar Gallus. They, too, are at large. Some in high places.”
I looked about the room and saw several men “in high places” look most uneasy. There was the stout Palladius, chief marshal of Constantius’s court. He had brought charges against Gallus. Next to him stood Evagrius, Count of the Privy Purse; he had helped prepare the case against Gallus. And Saturninus, Steward of the Household… A dozen conspirators looked back at Arbetio and me. The question in every face was: Will this reign begin in blood?
It was Ursulus, Count of the Sacred Largesse, who spoke up boldly. “Augustus, are those of us who served the emperor you served so well, to suffer for having done our duty?”
“No!” I was firm.
But Arbetio turned his bleak, pale gaze upon Ursulus. “Yet, Augustus, those who have by deed hurt you and your brother, by word and by deed, must be condemned.”
There was an uneasy murmur in the room. Yet Ursulus stood his ground. He was a handsome fleshy man with a quick wit and quicker tongue. “The Consistory are relieved, Lord, that only those who are truly guilty will be charged.”
“They shall be charged,” said Arbetio, speaking for me, which I did not like, “if it be our Lord’s will.”
“It is our will.” I said the traditional phrase in Latin.
“Who shall compose this court, Lord? and where shall it sit?” Now I should have stopped Arbetio at that moment. But I was tired from the long journey and languorous from a hot bath (never try to do any business immediately after bathing). I was unprepared for a strong will with a plan, and Arbetio had a plan, alas. Meanwhile, Ursulus proposed: “Since the Emperor Hadrian, the Consistory has been our highest court. So let the guilty be judged here, by us who are responsible for the business of the state.”
“But, Count,” and Arbetio’s voice was cold in its correctness, “the Consistory is still that of the late emperor, not of our new lord. I am sure the Augustus will want his own tribunal, as he will in time want his own Consistory.” This was undeniable.
I motioned to one of the secretaries to pay close attention as I spoke. “The court will be headed by Salutius Secundus.” This went over very well. As praetorian prefect of the East he is known for his sense of justice. I then named Mamertinus, Agilo, Nevitta, Jovinus, and Arbetio to the court. It was, in short, a military tribunal. I then ordered them to meet at Chalcedon, across the Bosphorus from Constantinople.
Thus began the treason trials. I shall—sadly—refer to them later.
• • • On 11 December 361 I entered Constantinople as Roman Emperor. Snow fell at slow intervals and the great flakes turned like feathers in air so still that the day was almost warm. The sky was low and the
colour of tarnished silver. There was no colour that day in nature, only in man, but what colour! It was a day of splendour.
In front of the Golden Gate, close to the sea of Marmora, the Scholarians in full-dress uniform stood at attention. On each of the brick towers at either side of the gate, the dragons were unfurled. The green bronze gates were shut. As custom demanded, I dismounted a few yards from the wall. The commander of the Scholarians gave me a silver hammer. With it I struck the bronze gate three times. From within, came the voice of the city’s prefect.
“Who goes there?”
“Julian Augustus,” I replied in a loud voice. “A citizen of the city.”
“Enter Julian Augustus.”
The bronze gates swung open noiselessly and there before me in the inner .courtyard stood the prefect of the city—and some two thousand men of senatorial rank. The Sacred Consistory was also there, having preceded me into the capital the night before. Quite alone, I passed through the gate and took possession of the City of Constantine.
Trumpets sounded. The people cheered. I was particularly struck by the brightness of the clothes they wore. I don’t know whether it was the white setting which made the reds and greens, the yellows and blues almost unbearably vivid, or the fact that I had been away too long in northern countries where all colours are as muted and as dim as the forests in which the people live. But this was not the misty north.
This was Constantinople, and despite the legend that we are the New Rome (and like that republican city, austere, stern, virtuous), we are not Rome at all. We are Asia. I thought of this as I was helped into the gold chariot of Constantine, recalling with amusement Eutherius’s constant complaint, “You are hopelessly Asiatic!” Well, I am Asiatic! And I was home at last. As flakes of snow settled in my hair and beard, I rode down Middle Street. Everywhere I looked I saw changes. The city had altered completely in the few years I had been away. For one thing, it has outgrown the wall of Constantine. What were once open fields are now crowded suburbs, and one day I shall have to go to the expense of building a new wall to contain these suburbs, which, incidentally, are not carefully laid out in the way the city was but simply created helter-skelter by contractors interested only in a quick profit.
Colonnades line Middle Street from one end to the other. The arcades were crowded with people who cheered me ecstatically. Why? Because they loved me? No. Because I was a novelty. The people tire of the same ruler, no matter how excellent. They had got bored with Constantius and they wanted a change of programme and I was it.
Suddenly I heard what sounded like thunder at my back. For a moment I took it as an omen that Zeus had approved me. Then I realized it was not thunder but my army singing the marching song of Julius Caesar’s troops: “Ecce Caesar nunc triumphat, Qui subettit Gallias!” It is the sound of war itself, and of all earthly glory. The prefect of the city walked beside my chariot and tried to point out the new buildings, but I could not hear him for the noise of the mob. Even so, it was exhilarating to see so much activity, in contrast to old cities like Athens and Milan where a new building is a rarity. When an old house collapses in Athens, the occupants simply move into another one, for there are far more houses than people. But everything in Constantinople is brandnew, including the population, which is now—
the prefect shouted to me just as we entered the Forum of Constantine—close to a million people, counting slaves and foreigners.
The colossal statue of Constantine at the centre of the oval forum always gives me a shock. I can never get used to it. On a tall column of porphyry, my uncle set up a statue of Apollo, stolen I believe from Delos. He then knocked the head off this masterpiece and substituted his own likeness, an inferior piece of work by any standard and so badly joined that there is a dark ring where head and neck meet.
The people refer to this monument as “old dirty neck”. On the head there is a monstrous halo of seven
bronze rays, perfect blasphemy, not only to the true gods but to the Galilean as well. Constantine saw himself as both Galilean and as incarnation of the sun god. He was most ambitious. I am told he doted on this particular statue and used to look at it every chance he got: he even pretended that the Apollonian body was his own!
We then entered that section of Middle Street which is called Imperial Way and leads into the Augusteum, a large porticoed square which was the centre of the city when it was called Byzantium. In the middle of the Augusteum, Constantine set up a large statue of his mother Helena. She is seated on a throne and looks quite severe; in one hand she holds a piece of wood said to have been a part of the cross to which the Galilean was nailed. My great-aunt had a passion for relics; she was also infinitely gullible. There is not a charnel house in the city to which she did not give some sliver of wood, shred of cloth, bit of bone said to have been associated in one way or another with that unfortunate rabbi and his family.
To my astonishment, the entire north side of the square was taken up by the basilica of a charnel house so new that the scaffolding had not yet been removed from the front. The prefect beamed cheerfully at me, thinking I would be pleased.
“Augustus may recall the old church that was here? the small one the Great Constantine dedicated to Holy Wisdom? Well, the Emperor Constantius has had it enlarged. In fact, only last summer he rededicated it.”
I said nothing but immediately vowed to turn their Saint Sophia into a temple to Athena. It would never do to have a Galilean monument right at my front door (the main entrance to the palace is on the south side of the square, just opposite the charnel house). To the east is the senate house to which the senators were now repairing. The senate’s usual quorum is fifty, but today all two thousand were present, elbowing one another as they hurried up the slippery steps.
The square was now jammed with people, and no one knew what to do next. The prefect was used to being given his orders by the palace chamberlains, who were, if nothing else, masters of pageantry. But today the chamberlains were in hiding and neither the prefect nor I knew what to do. I’m afraid between us we made rather a botch of things.
My chariot had stopped at the Milion, a covered monument from which all distances in the empire are measured. Yes, we counterfeit Rome in this, too; in everything, even to the seven hills.
“The senate waits for you, Lord,” said the prefect nervously.
“Waits for me? They’re still trying to get inside the senate house!”
“Perhaps the Augustus would prefer to receive them in the palace?”
I shook my head, vowing that never again would I enter a city without preparation. No one knew where to go or what to do. I saw several of my commanders arguing with the Scholarians, who did not know them, while ancient senators slipped and fell in the slush. It was a mess, and a bad omen. Already I was handling matters less well than Constantius.
I pulled myself together. “Prefect, while the senate meets, I shall make sacrifice.”
The prefect indicated Saint Sophia. “The bishop should be inside, Augustus. If he’s not, I can send for him.”
“Sacrifice to the true gods,” I said firmly.
“But… where?” The poor man was bewildered, with good reason. After all, Constantinople is a new city, dedicated to Jesus, and there are no temples except for three small ones on the old Byzantine acropolis. They would have to do. I motioned to those members of my entourage who had got through the guards and together we made a small ragged procession to the low hill where stood the shabby and deserted temples of Apollo, Artemis and Aphrodite.
In the dank filthy temple of Apollo, I gave thanks to Helios and to all the gods, while the
townspeople crowded round outside, amused by this first show of imperial eccentricity. As I sacrificed, I swore to Apollo that I would rebuild his temple.
Libanius: A few weeks ago the Emperor Theodosius gave the temple of Apollo to his praetorian prefect, as a coach house!
Julian Augustus
I then sent Mamertinus, as consul-designate, to tell the senate that I should not address them until the first of January, out of deference to my predecessor, whose body was already on its way to the city for interment. Through a now gusty blizzard, I made my way to the palace, entering through the Chalké Gate, whose vestibule is covered with a bronze roof. Just over the gate, I noticed a new painting of Constantine. He is shown with his three sons. At their feet, a dragon, javelin in its side, sinks into the pit: the true gods slain. Above the emperor’s head is a cross. A nice coat of whitewash should do the trick.
On either side of the gate, the Scholarian Guards are quartered. They saluted smartly. I ordered their commander to house and feed my military retinue. Then I crossed the inner court and entered the main part of the palace. In the great hall I found Eusebius with his eunuchs, notaries, slaves, secret agents, at least two hundred men and half-men, all waiting for me in a room which was as bright and as warm as a surnmer’s day. I have never seen so richly dressed a group in my life, nor smelled so much expensive perfume. I stood in the doorway and shook snow from my cloak as a dog shakes water from his back.
All present fell to the floor with exquisite grace, and Eusebius humbly kissed the hem of my robe. I looked down for one long moment at that large body which resembled one of those African beasts Egypt sends us for the games. Eusebius glittered with jewels and smelled of lilies. This was the creature who had tried to destroy me, as he had destroyed my brother.
“Get up, Chamberlain,” I said briskly. I motioned for the others to do the same. With some difficulty, Eusebius got to his feet. He looked at me shyly, with appealing eyes. Though he was terrified, years of training at court and a consummate skill at negotiating served him well; not once did his voice falter nor his poise desert him.
“Lord,” he whispered, “all is in readiness. The bedrooms, the kitchens, the rooms of assembly, the robes, the jewels…”
“Thank you, Chamberlain.”
“An inventory will be presented to the Lord of the World tomorrow.”
“Good, and now…”
“Whatever he wishes, our Lord need only command.” The voice that whispered in my ear was confiding and intimate. I stepped away from him. “Show me my apartments.”
Eusebius clapped his hands. The hall emptied. I followed the eunuch up white marble stairs to the second floor, where, through latticed windows, one can see the splendid gardens which descend in shallow terraces to the sea of Marmora. Off to the right is the mansion of the Persian Prince Ormisda who defected to us in 323, as well as the group of small buildings or pavilions known as the Daphne Palace; here the emperors hold audience.
It was strange to be in Constantius’s rooms. I was particularly moved when I saw the inlaid silver bed where my cousin had slept, and no doubt dreamed uneasily of me. Now he is gone and the room is mine. I wonder: who will sleep here after me? My reverie was interrupted by Eusebius, who cleared his throat nervously. I looked at him blankly. Then I said, “Tell Oribasius I want to see him.”
“Is that at1, Lord?”
“That is all, Chamberlain.”
Face grave and perfectly controlled, Eusebius withdrew. That evening he was arrested for high treason and sent to Chalcedon to stand trial.
Together Oribasius and I explored the palace, to the consternation of the staff, who had never before seen an emperor stray from the strict round prescribed for him by ceremonial. I was particulaxly interested in seeing the palace of Daphne. So Oribasius and I, escorted by no more than a dozen guards, pounded on the door of the little palace. A nervous eunuch opened it and showed us into the throne room where, years before, I had seen Constantine on a day when all our family was together; now all are dead but me. The room was as splendid as I remembered, including, I’m afraid, the jewel-encrusted cross which covers the entire ceiling. I should like to remove it, but traditionalists argue that no matter what the state’s religion it should be kept simply because my uncle put it there. Perhaps they are right.
The old eunuch who had shown us into the room said that he remembered the day I was presented to my uncle.
“You were a handsome child, Lord, and we knew even then that you would be our master.”
Naturally!
We also explored the banquet hall, with its arched triklinos at one end where, on a dais, the imperial family dine. The floor is particularly handsome, inlaid with different-coloured marbles from every province of the empire. While we were gaping like countryfolk, the Master of the Offices appeared, accompanied by a tall lean officer. After gently chiding me for having escaped him, the Master indicated the officer, a commander of cavalry named Jovian.
“He has iust arrived, Augustus, with the sacred remains of the Lord Constantius.”
Jovian saluted me; he is a good-humoured unintelligent man who serves with me now in Persia. I thanked him for his efforts and assigned him to temporary duty with the Scholarians. I then called a Consistory where, among other matters, we planned the funeral of Constantius. It was the last ceremony the eunuchs conducted and I am happy to say it went off without a hitch. He had loved them; they loved him. It was fitting that their last task at court should have been the funeral of their patron.
Constantius’s funeral was held in what the Galileans call the Church of the Holy Apostles, which is situated on the fourth of the city’s hills. Just back of the basilica, Constantine had put up a round mausoleum, much like the one of Augustus at Rome. Here lie his remains, and those of his three sons.
May the earth rest lightly on them.
To my surprise, I was quite moved at the funeral of my life’s enemy. For one thing, since I am celibate, our line ends with Constantius. But that’s not quite true: his widow Faustina was then pregnant.
I saw her at a distance, heavily veiled among the mourners. Several days later I granted her an audience I received Faustina in Constantius’s dressing-room, which I use as an office because it is lined with cupboards originally built to hold his many robes and tunics. I now use the cupboards for books. When Faustina entered, I rose and greeted her as a kinswoman. She knelt. I raised her up. I offered her a chair.
We both sat. Faustina is a vivacious woman, with a high arched Syrian nose, blue-black hair and grey eyes, testament to some Gothic or Thessalian ancestor. She was clearly frightened, though I did my best to put her at her ease.
“I hope you don’t mind my receiving you here.” I indicated the row of tailor’s dummies which still lined one wall, mute reminder of the body they were intended to represent.
“Wherever my Lord chooses,” she said formally. Then she smiled. “Besides, I have never been inside the Sacred Palace before.”
“That’s right. You were married at Antioch.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“I am sorry.”
“It was the will of heaven.”
I agreed that indeed it was. “Where will you live, Princess?”
I had decided to style her thus. “Augusta” would have been out of the question.
“If it pleases my Lord, at Antioch. Quietly. In retirement. With my family. Alone.” She dropped each phrase like a coin at my feet.
“You may live wherever you please, Princess. After all, you are my last kinswoman and…” As tactfully as possible, I indicated her swelling stomach beneath black robes, “… you bear the last child of our house. That is a great responsibility. Were it not for you, the Flavians would come to an end.”
For a moment, I saw fear and suspicion in the grey eyes; then she lowered her head and a faint colour rose in her neck. “I hope, Lord, you will have many children.”
“None,” I said flatly. “Your son—or daughter—alone must continue the line.”
“When my husband was dying, he said that you would be just and merciful, Lord.”
“We understood each other,” I said. But then I could not help adding, “Up to a point.”
“I am free to go?”
“You are perfectly free. Constantius’s bequests to you shall be honoured.” I rose. “Let me know when the child is born.” She kissed the purple; and we parted.
I get regular reports on her from Antioch. She is thought to be proud and difficult but not given to conspiracy. She dislikes me for not allowing her the title of Augusta. Her child, incidentally, turned out to be a girl, much to my relief. She is named Flavia Maxima Faustina. It will be interesting to see what happens to her.
Libanius: Flavia—or Constantia Posturea as we call her—is a lady of the greatest charm, very like her mother, and a most intimate friend of mine. She of course married the Emperor Gratian and they reside now in Treyes. So the daughter became what her mother did not, a reigning Augusta. Faustina is extraordinarily proud of her daughter, though when I saw her last month she was somewhat hurt at not having been invited to join the Empress in the West. Apparently the thoughtful child felt that the journey would be too taxing for her mother. Also, as I told Faustina: children do tend to live their own lives and we must be tolerant. I even loaned her the only copy I have of my little essay on “The Duty to Parents”. Which reminds me that she has not returned it. As for the Emperor Gratian, he is everyone’s hero, although (alas!) he is a devout Christian. When he was raised to the principate, he refused the title of Pontilex Maximus, the first emperor in our history to do so, a most ominous sign. As a matter of record, last year when Gratian selected Theodosius to be Augustus of the East, he gave his mother-in-law Faustina the honorary title Augusta. We were all tremendously pleased.
Julian Augustus
When Faustina left, I sent for a barber. My hair had not been cut since Gaul, and I was beginning to look quite savage, more Pan than philosopher. I was studying the palace roster when what looked like the Persian ambassador entered the room. I nearly got to my feet, so awed was I by the spectacle: gold rings, jewelled brooch, curled hair. But this was not an ambassador. This was the barber. My response was weak. “I sent for a barber not a tax collector,” I said. But the man took this serenely, as an imperial pleasantry.
He chattered freely. He told me that he had an annual salary, paid by the treasury; he also earned twenty loaves of bread a day, as well as fodder for twenty pack animals. Yet he felt himself underpaid, he said, as he trimmed my beard, gracefully deploring the fact that I like it to come to a point. I held my
tongue until he had left; then I dictated a memorandum dismissing all barbers, cooks, and other supernumeraries from my service.
I was engaged in this pleasant task when Oribasius joined me. He listened with amusement while I roared and waved my arms, getting more and more upset as I thought about the court I had inherited.
When I had finally run out of breath, Oribasius reported that he had been exploring the barracks of the Scholarian Guards. It seems that the men slept on leather mattresses! Their mess was sumptuous, and their goblets were a good deal heavier than their swords. As a sideline, some conducted a traffic in jewels, either stolen or extorted from rich merchants whom they regularly terrorized, demanding protection money. As if this were not bad enough, the guardsmen had formed a glee club and regularly hired themselves out to private parties where they sang love songs! I’m afraid I was screaming with anguish by the time Oribasius had finished. He always takes pleasure in arousing me, deliberately adding detail to detail just to watch the veins in my forehead throb. Then after he has roused me to a blind rage, he takes my pulse and tells me that if I’m not careful I shall have a stroke. I will, too, one day.
I was all for clearing out the barracks at once. But he thought it would be better to do it gradually.
“Besides, there is far worse going on in the palace.”
“Worse!” I raised my eyes to Helios. “I don’t expect soldiers to be philosophers. I know they steal.
But singing love songs, feather mattresses…”
“It’s not the soldiers. It’s the eunuchs.” But he said nothing more, indicating the secretaries. Sworn though they are to secrecy, one must always be careful what one says in front of any witness.
“Later,” Oribasius whispered.
We were suddenly aware of a great babble from below. The Master of the Offices entered, breathing hard. “Lord, the Egyptian delegation begs your presence, humbly, graciously…” At this point the noise below began to sound like a riot.
“Is this usual, Master?”
“No, Lord, but Egyptians…”
“… are noisy?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“And the praetorian prefect is unable to handle them?”
“Exactly, Lord. He told them you could not see them and…”
There was a noise of breaking pottery, and a few high-pitched screams.
“Are the Egyptians always like this, Master?”
“Often, Lord.”
Much amused, I followed the Master of the Offices downstairs to the praetorian prefect’s audience chamber. Just as I was about to enter the hall, a half-dozen attendants appeared from nowhere. One arranged my hair; another my beard; my cloak was redraped; a diadem was set on my head. Then the Master of the Offices and what was now a considerable retinue opened the doors and, feeling rather like Constantius, I entered the prefect’s chamber.
I should explain that Egyptians are easily the most tiresome of my subjects, if one wishes to generalize… and who does not? Their bad reputation was not gained for nothing. They particularly delight in litigation. Sometimes a family will conduct a lawsuit for a century, simply for the pleasure of making trouble. This particular delegation had come to see Constantius in Antioch, but he was gone before they arrived. They pursued him to the Springs, where death mercifully saved him from them.
Then, hearing that a new emperor would soon be in Constantinople, they had come straight to me.
Their complaint? A thousand suits against our government in Egypt.
They swarmed about me—they were of every colour, from pale Greek to black Numidian—and they
all talked at once, quite unimpressed by my greatness. The praetorian prefect looked at me across the room; hopefully, he made the sign of the knife. But I was more amused than offended.
With some difficulty, I got their attention. “Justice,” I shouted, “will be done each of you!” This occasioned both cheers and groans. Apparently, some felt things were going much too easily.
“But,” I said firmly, “no redress can be given here. Only at Chalcedon, across the Bosphorus. That is where the treasury is, where such matters are decided.” I was now improvising quite freely, to the amazement of the prefect. “You will all be taken there at my expense.” A rapturous sigh from the delegation. “And tomorrow I shall join you and examine in detail each suit. If I find any of you has been injured. I shall know what to do.” There was a pleased response, and I slipped out of the room.
The Master of the Offices was distressed. “But tomorrow is impossible! And the treasury is here, not there.”
“Get the whole lot of them to Chalcedon. Then tell the boatmen that no Egyptian is to be brought back to the city.”
For the first time I felt that I had earned the respect of the Master of the Offices. The Egyptians stayed at Chalcedon a month, annoying the local officials. Then they went home.
Priscus: You will note that though Julian referred some while back to the treason trials at Chalcedon and promised to discuss them, he never mentions the subject again. Of course he did not have the chance to go over any of these notes, but I am not sure that even if he had caught the omission he would have been at all candid. The whole business was shameful, and he knew it.
Arbetio arrested a dozen of Constantius’s high officials. They were all friends of Arbetio, but that did not prevent him from charging each with high treason. Why? Because any one of these officers of state might have compromised him. Arbetio wanted to be emperor; he had tried to persuade Eusebius to recognize him as Constantius’s heir. As a result, he was now a man with a purpose; the covering of his own tracks.
Although Salutius Secundus was officially president of the court, Arbetio was in charge. He was a tiger among sheep. Palladius, a blameless official who had been chief marshal to the court, was charged with having conspired against Gallus; on no evidence at all, Palladius was exiled to Britain along with Florentius (a chamberlain, not our friend from Gaul). Also exiled—again on no evidence-were Evagrius (former Count of the Privy Purse), Saturninus (former Steward of the Sacred Household), Cyrinus (a private secretary). Even more shocking was the exile of the consul Taurus, whose only fault was that he had joined his rightful lord Constantius when Julian marched into Illyricum. Public opinion was particularly scandalized to read a proclamation which began,
“In the year of the consulate of Taurus and Florentius, Taurus was found guilty of treason.” That sort of thing is not done, except by the most reckless of tyrants.
The praetorian prefect Florentius was condemned to death, properly, I think. He did indeed try to destroy Julian, though if one wanted to be absolutely just (and who does in political matters?), he acted only upon Constantius’s orders. Fortunately for him, his trial was conducted in absentia. He had wisely disappeared the day Constantius died and he did not reappear until some months after Julian’s death. He lived to a great age and died at Milan, rich and contented. Some live to be old; some are struck down too soon. Julian of course would have said it was inexorable Fate, but I know better. It is nothing, absolutely nothing. There is no design to any of it.
Paul “the chain”, Mercurius “the count of dreams” and Gaudentius were all put to death, as was proper. Eusebius also was executed, and his vast property reverted to the crown from which he had stolen it.
Then the outrage occurred. Of all the public men in our timorous time, Ursulus alone had the courage always to say what he thought was right, despite consequences. He understood Arbetio perfectly. He deplored the trials. He said so. To everyone’s amazement, Arbetio had Ursulus arrested.
The trial was an abomination. I am told by those who were present that Ursulus tongue-lashed Arbetio, mocked his ambition, dared the court to find him either disloyal to Julian or in any way connected with Gallus’s death. I say that I was “told” this because I was not able to read about it: the records of the trial have vanished. But I was able to talk frankly to Mamertinus, who had been a horrified witness of this grim farce. He told me what happened, making no excuse for himself. Like all the rest, including Julian, he was led by the wilful Arbetio, and must share in the guilt.
Forged testimony was prepared against Ursulus, but the forgeries were so clumsy that he was able to have them thrown out as evidence. At this point even Arbetio might have given up, but he had one last weapon in reserve. The trial was a military one, held in the camp of two legions. Now Ursulus was supremely unpopular with the army because of that bitter remark he made when, surveying the ruins of Amida, he said, “See how bravely our citizens are protected by those soldiers, whose pay is bankrupting us!”
Suddenly Arbetio threw this quotation in Ursulus’s face. Immediately the officers and men who were present at the trial made a loud racket, demanding Ursulus’s head. They got it. He was executed within the hour.
This was the talk of the city when I arrived in January. I questioned Julian about the trial; he was evasive. “I didn’t know what was happening. I put the whole thing in Salutius’s hands. I was as surprised as anyone.”
“But they acted in your name…”
“Every village notary acts in my name. Am I responsible for all injustice?”
“But surely you had to give permission for the execution. Under Roman law…”
“The military court acted on its own initiative. I didn’t know.”
“Then every member of the court was guilty of treason for using your power of life and death illegally.”
“The court was not illegal. They were duly constituted by imperial edict…”
“Then they must have informed you before the execution and if they did…”
“I did not know!” Julian was furious. I never mentioned the subject again. But when we were in Persia he brought up the matter, on his own. We had been talking about the idea of justice when suddenly Julian said, “The hardest thing I ever did was to allow a court to condemn an innocent man.”
“Ursulus?”
He nodded. He had quite forgotten he had once told me that he had known nothing of the Chalcedon proceedings. “The army wanted him dead. There was nothing I could do. When the court found him guilty of high treason—even though he was innocent I had to. let the sentence stand.”
“To appease the army? or Arbetio?”
“Both. I was not sure of myself then. I needed every bit of support I could get. But if that trial were today, I would free Ursulus and indict Arbetio.”
“But yesterday is not today, and Ursulus is dead.”
“I’m sorry,” said Julian, and that was the end of that chapter. It is one of the few instances I know where Julian was weak and in his weakness bad. But how might we have acted in his place? Differently? I think not. One good thing: Julian did not confiscate Ursulus’s estate as law requires in the case of a traitor. The property all went to the dead man’s daughter.
Libanius: Priscus seems unduly sentimental in this matter. As he himself admits, he did not study the transcript of the trial, so Ursulus? Unlike Priscus, I should never predict my own behaviou in any circumstance until I knew precisely what the given fact were. Is not all conduct based on this sort of empiricism? or hay, I misled three generations of pupils?
Julian Ausustus
I had heard all my life about what went on in the eunuctu quarters of the Sacred Palace. But I tend to discount gossip, having been myself the subject of so much, most of it fantastic. I confess I did not really want any rumours confirmed, but Oribasius insisted that we see for ourselves. So I got myself up in a hooded robe while Oribasius disguised himself as a Syrian merchant with oiled ringlet and glossy false beard.
Shortly before midnight, we left my apartment, by way of private staircase. Outside the palace we found ourselves in a small courtyard, bright with moonlight. Like shadowy conspirators, we crossed to the opposite wing of the palace where the eunuchs and minor officials lived. We slipped inside the portico. At the third door from the south, Oribasius stopped, and rapped three times, A muffled voice said, “What is the time?”
“The time is ours,” said Oribasius. This was the correct password. The door opened just wide enough for us to enter. A dwarf greeted us and pointed to the dimly lit stairs. “They’re just starting.”
Oribasius gave him a coin. On the second-floor gallery deal mute slaves showed us into what had been Eusebius’s dining hall It was almost as splendid as my own! Against the walls of the room some fifty eunuchs reclined on couches. They were so gorgeously dressed that they looked like bales of silk on display. In front of each couch a table was set, piled with food. Even for an evening of what (in my innocence) I took to be music, the eunuchs needed their food.
At one end of the room there were chairs and benches for wha were known as “friends of the court”.
Here sat a number of Scholarian officers, drinking heavily. I was completely mystified but dared not speak for fear someone would recognize my voice As Mardonius—that good eunuch—used to say:
“Julian has no lyre, only a brazen trumpet.”
We sat down in the front row, next to a centurion of the Herculani. He was already quite drunk. He nudged me in the ribs.
“Don’t look so gloomy! And take that hood off, makes you look like a dirty Christ-y!” This was considered high wit, and there was a good deal of laughter at my expense. But the glib Oribasius rescued me. “Poor fellow’s from the country, doesn’t dare show his patched tunic.” Oribasius’s accent was pure Antioch. I was most impressed.
“He part of the show?” The centurion pushed his face close to mine, his breath like the last dregs from a skin of wine. I pulled back, hand to my hood.
“No,” said Oribasius. “A friend of Phalaris.” This impressed the centurion, who left me alone.
Oribasius whispered in my ear.
“Phalaris is our host. He’s there. In the centre.” Phalaris was large and sullen, with a pursed mouth. I knew that I had seen him before, but I could not place him. Oribasius explained. “He’s in charge of the kitchen. Which makes him—now that Eusebius is dead the richest man at court.”
I sighed. The emperor is hugely robbed by his servants.
Cymbals were struck. A long line of Scholarians filed into the room. They halted before Phalaris and gave him a parody of the imperial salute. I started angrily to my feet, but Oribasius held me back. With a gesture quite as majestic as any of Constantius’s, Phalaris acknowledged the salute. The soldiers then took their places against the wall and, at a signal from their leader, they sang a love song! But there was worse to come.
Fifty shabbily dressed youths entered the hall. They moved awkwardly and seemed not to know what
to do until a Scholarian shoved one of them to his knees in front of Phalaris; all followed suit. The eunuch then motioned for them to sit on the floor directly in front of us. I was completely baffled.
These youths were obviously not entertainers. They looked like ordinary workmen of the sort one sees in every city, hanging about the arcades, eyeing women.
Next, the same number of young girls were herded into the room. All around me the “friends of the court” breathed satisfaction. The girls were uncommonly pretty, and terrified. After a slow tour of the hall, they were ordered to sit on the floor beside the young men. They too wore ordinary clothes, which meant that they were neither prostitutes nor entertainers. I saw that the eunuchs were studying the girls with almost as much interest as were the men about me. I thought this surprising, but Oribasius assures me that the desire for women remains cruelly strong in eunuchs, especially in those gelded after puberty.
Incapacity does not prevent lust.
Musicians appeared and played while a troupe of Syrian cotylists danced. I suppose they were good.
They moved violently, made astonishing leaps in the air, did lewd things with the cups which are a part of their “art”. While all eyes watched them, I tapped the shoulder of the boy who sat just in front of me.
He gave a nervous start, and turned around, pale with fright. He had the fair skin and grey eyes of Macedonia. His hands were large and callused, the nails black with soot. I took him to be a metalworker’s apprentice, at the most eighteen years old.
“Sir?” His light voice cracked with tension.
“Why are you here?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“But how did you get here?”
“They…” He motioned to the Scholarians. “I was coming home from the silver market, where I work, and they stopped me and made me go with them.”
“Did they tell you why?”
“No, sir. They won’t kill us, will they?” There is no terror to equal that of the ignorant in a strange place.
“No,” I said firmly. “They won’t hurt you.”
The Syrian dancers were followed by what looked to be priestesses of the Egyptian cult of Syra.
Though I recognized many of the ritual gestures, I suspect that these women were not actually priestesses but prostitutes, imitating the sacred erotic dances. It was, after all, a night of travesty. Every stage of the mysteries was acted out, including the ceremony of abundance with its wooden phalluses.
This last brought loud applause from the “friends of the court”, and ecstatic sighs and giggles from the eunuchs. Though the cult of Syra does not much appeal to me, I was offended to see its mysteries profaned.
After the “priestesses” had finished their dance, several burly Scholarians motioned for the girls and youths to parade in pairs before the reclining eunuchs, much the way young people stroll on feast days in provincial towns. For some minutes they moved, tense, self-conscious, trapped. Then Phalaris motioned for a particular girl and youth to approach him. This was a signal for the other eunuchs to choose pairs. They did so, hissing like angry geese.
Suddenly Phalaris reached up and tore the girl’s dress at the shoulder; it fell to her knees. Those about me gasped with excitement. I was too stunned to move. When the girl tried to pull her dress back in place, Phalaris tugged at it again and this time the cheap material split and came away in his hand.
Like a sacrifice, she stood, naked, arms crossed on her breast. Phalaris then turned to the boy and lifted up his tunic as far as the belly. Loud laughter; the youth wore nothing underneath. Phalaris then pulled both girl and boy, the one pale and the other red with embarrassment, on to the couch, his fat arms girdling each.
Meanwhile, the other eunuchs had stripped their terrified prey. None resisted, although one young man, inadvertently shying from a eunuch’s grasp, was cracked hard across the buttocks by the flat of a Schotarian’s sword. The rest submitted.
As I watched, I had the sense of having witnessed something similar. This monstrous scene contained a bafflingly familiar element. Not until days later did I recall what it was: children opening presents. The eunuchs were like greedy children. They tore the clothes off their victims in the same way children tear wrappings from a gift, passionately eager to see what is inside. Stubby eunuch fingers explored the strange bodies as though they were toys; they were particularly fascinated by the sex, male and female.
Imagine fifty huge babies allowed people for playthings and one can begin to apprehend what I saw that night.
I might have sat there for ever, turned to astonished stone, if I had not noticed the boy I had talked to earlier. He was stretched across a eunuch’s lap while a frightened girl poured dippers of honey over his belly, the eunuch fondling him all the while, preparatory to heaven alone knew what vice. That was enough.
I had got as far as the centre of the room when one of the Scholarians grabbed me roughly by the shoulder. The hood fell back from my head. One look at my face was enough. The music stopped, instrument by instrument. No one moved. No one spoke. Only the young people stared at me dumbly and without interest. I motioned to a tribune who sat on the first row. He was the highestranking officer present. Trembling, he saluted me. I indicated the boys and girls and in a low voice that only he could hear, I said, “Send them home.” Then I pointed to Phalaris. “Arrest the eunuchs. Confine all Scholarians present to barracks.” In a silence as complete as any I have ever heard, Oribasius and I left the banquet hall.
Oribasius feels that I took the entire thing too seriously because where the human body was revealed, particularly public baths. I think what most distressed him about the behaviour of the eunuchs was the knowledge that not only had he the power to do the same but that he wanted to. This recognition of his own nature horrified him. Note that as he lingers over the scene, what most strikes him is not so much the demonstration of lust but the power to do what one likes with another, and that other not a slave but free. Our Julian—like all of us—had a touch of Tiberius in him, and he hated it.
For twenty years now I have been haunted by one detail, the pouring of honey on the genitals of the smith’s apprentice. What exactly was the eunuch’s plan? What was the girl supposed to do? And why honey? I have theories of course, but I shall never know for certain since Julian ended the party much too soon. I am confident of one thing: the eunuch was a cook and accustomed to basting game birds with honey. He was obviously reverting to habit.
Libanius: The lechery of Priscus is an unexpected development of his senescence. I am not aware of any “touch of Tiberius” in myself, rather the contrary.