Julian Augustus
Constantius seldom addressed the senate for the excellent reason that he could not speak for any length of time without stammering or making some error in logic or grammar. As a result, he almost never set foot in the senate house. He preferred to summon the senate to the throneroom in the Daphne Palace where he could address them informally, on those rare occasions when he dealt with them at all.
I returned to the old ways, imitating Augustus, who was content to be first citizen. On I January I walked across the square to attend the senate merely as a member. The conscript fathers affected to be pleased by my gesture, and for the remaining months that I was in the city I often attended their sessions. I don’t need to add that whenever I did, I always spoke!
It is customary for new consuls taking office to sponsor games and entertainments. Mamertinus gave us three days of chariot races in the Hippodrome which I attended as a courtesy to him. I found the races interminable but I enjoyed the crowds. They always greeted me with an ear-splitting roar, and I was told that not once in twenty-five years had Constantius evoked such an affectionate response. Since several people told me this perhaps it is true and not mere flattery.
While attending the first day’s races, I examined with some interest the various works of art Constantius had placed along the centre of the track: obelisks, columns, bronze memorials. One of them is particularly beautiful: three bronze snakes intertwine to form a tall column upon which a golden tripod supports a golden bowl dedicated by the Greeks to Apollo at Delphi as a thanksgiving for their victory over Persia. Constantine stole even the holiest of relics to decorate his city. One day I shall send them all back to their original homes. But thinking of Delphi gave me an idea. I turned to Oribasius.
“We should consult the oracle.”
“Which oracle?” Oribasius maintains that between soothsayers, oracles and sacrifices, I have terrified the future into submission.
“Delphi. The only oracle.”
“Does it still exist?”
“Find out.”
Oribasius laughed. “Shall I go now, before the games are over?”
“No. But you want to visit Greece anyway. If you do, visit the oracle and consult the Pythoness.”
So it was agreed. We were wondering what form my question to the oracle should take, when a number of slaves were brought forward to receive their freedom. This is an ancient custom, to celebrate the new year and the accession of new consuls. The slaves lined up before the imperial box and I eagerly said the legal formula which made them free. There was a startled gasp from the crowd. I was bewildered. Mamertinus who sat on my right was much amused. “Augustus, the consul is supposed to free the slaves, just as the consul gives the games.” Greatly embarrassed, I shouted to the people, “I hereby fine myself ten pounds of gold for usurping the consul’s function!” This was received with much laughter and cheering, and I think it made a good impression.
• • • On 4 February 362 I declared religious freedom in the world. Anyone could worship any god in any way he chose. The cult of the Galileans was no longer the state’s religion, nor were Galilean priests
exempt from paying taxes and the usual municipal duties. I also recalled all the bishops who had been sent into exile by Constantius. I even allowed the terrible Athanasius to return to Alexandria, though I did not mean for him to be bishop again. Among those who returned from exile was Aetius, who had given a good report of me to Gallus. I shall always be grateful to him. Soon after I had taken possession of the capital, I was faced with a most disagreeable crisis. My old teacher Bishop George had finally succeeded Athanasius as bishop of Alexandria. Not surprisingly, George proved to be an unpopular prelate. He was highhanded and arbitrary with everyone. Matters came to a head when he destroyed a Mithraeum, saying that he intended to build a charnel house on its foundation. When our brothers rightfully protested this sacrilege, he retaliated by displaying all sorts of human skulls and bones as well as obscene objects, declaring falsely that he had found these “‘proofs” of human sacrifice buried in the Mithraeum. It was an ugly business.
George also incurred the wrath of the Athanasians by his singleminded persecution of all those who had followed the teachings of the bishop. The Alexandrians could not endure him. When word finally came that his protector Constantius was dead, the mob stormed the bishop’s palace and murdered George; his body was then tied to a camel and dragged through the city to the beach, where it was burned and the ashes thrown into the sea. This haly pened on 24 December. When I heard about it, I wrote the people of the city a harsh letter, threatening reprisals. Their officials were most apologetic and promised to keep the peace. Not long after, Athanasius appeared in the city with a great mob of fanatics and resumed his old place as bishop. Almost his first gesture was to “baptize” the wife of my governor.
This was too much. I banished Athanasius, making it clear that a return from exile did not mean a return to power for deposed bishops, especially those who are resourceful enemies of Hellenism.
At about this time I acquired George’s library, easily one of the best in Asia. I am rather sentimental about that library, for his were the actual books which had shaped my own mind. I am travelling at this moment with George’s set of Plotinus. The rest of the books I left at Constantinople as a nucleus for the Julian library.
The edict of 4 February had a good effect, though there was much complaint from the Arian bishops, who felt that by allowing their Athanasian brethren to return, I was ensuring doctrinal quarrels which would inevitably weaken the Galilean organization. exactly! They are now at one another’s throats. I have also insisted that all lands and buildings which over the years the Galileans seized from us be restored. I realize that this will cause some hardship, but there is no other way of getting the thing done.
I am quite prepared for trouble.
On 22 February I issued another edict, reserving to myself alone the right to use the public transport.
The bishops, hurrying here and there at the state’s expense, had wrecked the system. Note: At this point list all edicts for the year, as well as government appointments. They are of course on permanent file at the Record Officej but even so one must be thorough. Meanwhile, I want only to touch on the high points of those six months in Constantinople.
Late in February I learned, quite by accident, that Vettius Agorius Praetextatus and his wife were in the city. He is the leader of the Hellenist party at Rome while his wife, Aconia Paulina, has been admitted to every mystery available to women as well as being high priestess of Hecate. I was eager to meet them. Praetextatus is a slight, frail man, with flowing white hair and delicate small features. His wife is somewhat taller than her husband and as red-faced and robust as a Gaul, though she is of the purest Roman stock. They are most enthusiastic at what I am doing, particularly Aconia Paulina. “We have had a remarkable response at our temple of Hecate. Truly remarkable. And all due to you. Why, last year in Rome we could hardly get anyone to undergo initiation but now… well, I have received reports from Milan, Alexandria, Athens… everywhere, that the women are flocking to us! We are second only to Isis in enrolment, and though I am devoted to the Isis cult (in fact, I am an initiate, second degree), I think Hecate has always drawn a better class of women. I only hope we shall be able to open a
temple right here.”
“You shall! You shall!” I was delighted. “I want every god represented in the capital!”
Aconia Paulina beamed. Praetextatus smiled gravely. “Every day,” he said softly, “every waking hour, we pray for your success.”
For at least an hour the three of us celebrated that unity’ which only those who have been initiated into the mysteries can know. We were as one. Then I got down to business.
“If we are to defeat the Gallleans we must, very simply, have a comparable organization.”
Praetextatus was dubious. “We have often discussed this at Rome, and until recently we thought we were at least holding our own. At heart, Rome is anti-Christian. The senate is certainly Hellenist.” He paused and looked out of the window, as though searching for Zeus himself in the rain clouds rolling in from the sea. “You see, Augustus, we are not one organization like the Galileans. We are many. Also, we are voluntary. We do not have the support of the government…”
“You do now.”
“… now, yes, but is now too late? Also, our appeal is essentially to the individual, at least in the mysteries. Each man who is initiated undergoes the experience alone. At Eleusis it is the single soul which confronts eternity.”
“But there is also the sense of fellowship with other initiates! Look at us! You and I are brothers in Mithras…”
“That is not the same thing as belonging to an open congregation, our conduct governed by priests who are quite as interested in property and political power as they are in religion.”
“I agree.” I tapped the papers in front of me. “And I surest we fight them on their own ground. I plan a world priesthood, governed by the Roman Pontifex Maximus. We shall divide the world into administrative units, the way the Galileans have done and each diocese will have its own hierarchy of priests under a single high priest, responsible to me.”
They were impressed. Aconia Paulina wanted to know if cults would be represented in the priesthood. I said yes. Every god and goddess known to the people, no matter in what guise or under what strange name, would be worshipped, for multiplicity is the nature of life. We all believe -even the Galileans, despite their confused doctrine of trinity—that there is a single Godhead from which all life, divine and mortal, descends and to which all life must return. We may not know this creator, though his outward symbol is the sun. But through intermediaries, human and divine, he speaks to us, shows us aspects of himself, prepares us for the next stage of the journey. “To find the father and maker of all is hard,” as Socrates said. “And having found him it is impossible to utter him.” Yet as Aeschylus wrote with equal wisdom, “men search out god and searching find him.” The search is the whole point to philosophy and to the religious experience. It is a part of the Galilean impiety to proclaim that the search ended three hundred years ago when a young rabbi was executed for treason. But according to Paul of Tarsus, Jesus was no ordinary rabbi nor even messiah; he was the One God himself who rose from the dead in order to judge the world immediately. In fact, Jesus is quoted as having assured his followers that some of them would still be alive when the day of judging arrived. But one by one the disciples died in the natural course and we are still waiting for that promised day. Meanwhile, the bishops amass property, persecute one another, and otherwise revel in this life, while the state is weakened and on our borders the barbarians gather like winter wolves, waiting for us to stagger in our weakness, and to fall. I see this as plainly as I see my hand as it crosses the page (for this part I do not entrust to any secretary). To stop the chariot as it careers into the sun, that is what I was born to do.
I explained my plans to Praetextatus. Some I have already put into effect. Others must wait until I return from Persia. The failure of Hellenism has been, largely, a matter of organization. Rome never tried to impose any sort of worship upon the countries it conquered and civilized; in fact, quite the
contrary. Rome was eclectic. All religions were given an equal opportunity and even Isis—after some resistance—was worshipped at Rome. As a result we have a hundred important gods and a dozen mysteries. Certain rites are—or were—supported by the state because they involved the genius of Rome.
But no attempt was ever made to co-ordinate the worship of Zeus on the Capitol with, let us say, the Vestals who kept the sacred fire in the old forum. As time passed our rites became, and one must admit it bluntly, merely form, a reassuring reminder of the great age of the city, a token gesture to the old gods who were thought to have founded and guided Rome from a village by the Tiber to world empire. Yet from the beginning, there were always those who mocked. A senator of the old Republic once asked an augur how he was able to get through a ceremony of divination without laughing. I am not so light-minded, though I concede that many of our rites have lost their meaning over the centuries; witness those temples at Rome where certain verses learned by rote are chanted year in and year out, yet no one, including the priests, knows what they mean, for they are in the early language of the Etruscans, long since forgotten.
As the religious forms of the state became more and more rigid and perfunctory, the people were drawn to the mystery cults, many of them Asiatic in origin. At Eleusis or in the various caves of Mithras, they were able to get a vision of what this life can be, as well as a foretaste of the one that follows. There are, then, three sorts of religious experiences. The ancient rites, which are essentially propitiatory. The mysteries, which purge the soul and allow us to glimpse eternity. And philosophy, which attempts to define not only the material world but to suggest practical ways to the good life, as well as attempting to synthesize (as Iamblichos does so beautifully) all true religion in a single comprehensive system.
Now into this most satisfactory—at least potentially—of worlds, came the Galileans. They base their religion on the idea of a single god, as though that were a novelty: from Homer to Julian, Hellenes have been monotheist. Now this single god, according to the largest of the Galilean sects, sent his son (conceived of a virgin, like so many other Asiatic gods) to preach to the world, to suffer, to rise from the dead, to judge mankind on a day which was supposed to have dawned more than three hundred years ago. Now I have studied as carefully as any bishop the writings of those who knew the Galilean, or said they did. They are composed in bad Greek, which I should have thought would have been enough to put off any educated man, while the story they tell is confused, to say the least (following Porphyry I have discovered some sixty-four palpable contradictions and absurdities).
The actual life story of the Galilean has vanished. But I have had an interesting time trying to piece it together. Until thirty years ago, the archives at Rome contained a number of contemporary reports on his life. They have since disappeared, destroyed by order of Constantine. It is of course an old and bitter ioke that the Nazarene himself was not a Christian. He was something quite else. I have talked to antiquarians who knew about the file in the archives; several had either read it or knew people who had.
Jesus was, simply, a reforming Jewish priest, exclusive as the Jews are, with no interest in proselytizing outside the small world of the Jews. His troubles with Rome were not religious (when did Rome ever persecute anyone for religious belief?) but political. This Jesus thought he was the messiah. Now the messiah is a sort of Jewish hero who, according to legend, will one day establish a Jewish empire prior to the end of the world. He is certainly aor a god, much less the One God’s son. The messiah has been the subject of many Jewish prophecies, and Jesus carefully acted out each prophetic requirement in order to make himself resemble this hero (the messiah would enter Jerusalem on an ass; so did he, et cetera). But the thing went wrong. The people did not support him. His god forsook him. He turned to violence.
With a large band of rebels, he seized the temple, announcing that he had come with a sword. What his God would not do for him he must do for himself. So at the end he was neither a god nor even the Jewish messiah but a rebel who tried to make himself king of the Jews. Quite correctly, our governor executed him.
We must never forget that in his own words, Jesus was a Jew who believed in the Law of Moses. This
means he could not be the son of God (the purest sort of blasphemy), much less God himself, temporarily earthbound. There is nothing in the book of the Jews which prepares us for a messiah’s kinship with Jehovah. Only by continual reinterpretation and convenient “revelations” have the Galileans been able to change this reformer-rabbi’s career into a parody of one of our own gods, creating a passion of death and rebirth quite inconceivable to one who kept the Law of Moses… not to mention disgusting to us who have worshipped not men who were executed in time but symbolic figures like Mithras and Osiris and Adonis whose literal existence does not matter but whose mysterious legend and revelation are everything.
The moral preachings of the Galilean, though often incoherently recorded, are beyond criticism. He preaches honesty, sobriety, goodness, and a kind of asceticism. In other words, he was a quite ordinary Jewish rabbi, with Pharisee tendencies. In a crude way he resembles Marcus Aurelius. Compared to Plato or Aristotle, he is a child.
It is the wonder of our age how this simple-minded provincial priest was so extraordinarily transformed into a god by Paul of Tarsus, who outdid all quacks and cheats that ever existed anywhere.
As Porphyry wrote so sharply in the last century, “The gods have declared Christ to have been most pious; he has become immortal and by them his memory is cherished. Whereas, the Christians are a polluted set, contaminated and enmeshed in error.” It is even worse now. B7 the time Constantine, Constantius and the horde of bishops got through with Jesus, little of his original message was left.
Every time they hold a synod they move further away from the man’s original teaching. The conception of the triple god is their latest masterpiece.
One reason why the Galileans grow ever more powerful and dangerous to us is their continual assimilation of our rites and holy days. Since they rightly regard Mithraism as their chief rival, they have for some years now been taking over various aspects of the Mithraic rite and incorporating them into their own ceremonies. Some critics believe that the gradual absorption of our forms and prayers is fairly recent. But I date it from the very beginning. In at least one of the biographies of the Gallleans there is a strange anecdote which his followers are never able to explain (and they are usually nothing if not ingenious at making sense of nonsense). The Galilean goes to a fig tree to pick its fruit. But as it is not the season for bearing, the tree was barren. In a fit of temper, the Galilean blasts the tree with magic, killing it. Now the fig tree is sacred to Mithras: as a youth, it was his home, his source of food and clothing. I suggest that the apologist who wrote that passage in the first century did so deliberately, inventing it or recording it, no matter which, as a sign that the Galilean would destroy the worship of Mithras as easily as he had destroyed the sacred tree.
But I do not mean here in the pages of what is supposed to be a chronicle to give my familiar arguments against the Galileans. They may be found in the several essays I have published on the subject.
Praetextatus and I worked closely together all that winter in Constantinople. I found both him and his wife enormously knowledgeable on religious matters. But whenever I spoke of practical matters, Praetextatus would lose interest. So rtuite alone, I set about reorganizing… no, organizing Hellenism.
The Galileans have received much credit for giving charity to anyone who asks for it. We are now doing the same. Their priests impress the ignorant with their so-called holy lives. I now insist that our priests be truly holy. I have given them full instructions on how to comport themselves in public and private.
Though Praetextatus lacked inspiration, he worked diligently with me on these plans. But Aconia was no help at all. She does not, as the saying goes, grow on one. I am afraid that her only interest is her own salvation. She regards religion as a sort of lottery, and if she takes a chance on each of the gods, the law of averages ought to favour her to pick the right one who will save her soul. Though what eternity would want with Aconia Paulina, I don’t know.
Priscus: Bravo Julian!
Though Julian makes no mention of it, at about this time our old friend Maximus made his triumphant entry into Constantinople. I was not there when he arrived, but I certainly heard enough about it. When he became emperor, Julian invited every philosopher and magician in the empire to court. And just about all of them came. Only his Christian “friends” stayed away. Basil was being holy in Cappadocia; I don’t think Gregory was invited. It might be interesting to check the Record Office about Gregory because I seem to recall a most flattering letter he wrote Julian at about this time, but perhaps I dreamed it… Only last week I called Hippia by my mother’s name, after half a century of marriage! I am of course losing my mind. But why not? When death comes, it will have nothing to take but a withered sack of bones, for the memory of Priscus, which is Priscus, will long since have flown.
Several times, Julian tried to get Maximus to leave Ephesus and come to Gaul, but the omens were never right. I’m sure they weren’t! Maximus was not about to ally himself to what most people thought would be the losing side of a rebellion. But when an invitation finally came from the Sacred Palace, Maximus was ready. He arrived in Constantinople while Julian was at the senate house. Incidentally, Julian was in his element with that body, though l’m not sure they enjoyed him as much as he did them.
The senate usually cannot master a quorum. But with an emperor present, the senate chamber threatened to burst. The conscript fathers sat on one another’s laps while Julian joked, prayed, exhorted and, all in all, got quite a lot of work done, for there was nothing which he did not concern himself with.
During the six months he was at Constantinople, Julian built a harbour at the foot of the palace. He exempted all men with thirteen children or more from paying taxes: he was much concerned at our declining birthrate. I can’t think why. It is not as if there were not too many people on earth as it is and to make more of them will simply dilute the breed. But he was disturbed by the fact that the barbarians increase in numbers while we decrease. He also confirmed our old friend Sallust as praetorian prefect of Gaul, though he clearly would have liked to have him close by. He made this personal sacrifice because there was no one else he could trust to protect the West, and he was right, as each year confirms. Today Gaul is still secure while the Goths are now just a few days’ march from this house in Athens where’I sit, writing of old things, and remembering more than I thought.
Julian was in the middle of an impassioned speech when Maximus appeared in the door of the senate chamber. The great “philosopher” was dressed in green silk robes covered with cabalistic designs; his long grey beard was perfumed and his shaggy eyebrows were carefully combed—I’ve actually seen him comb them to give the effect of two perfect arches. He carried his magic staff carved from dragon’s bone, or some such nonsense. The senators were shocked, for no one but a senator may enter during session; certainly, no one may enter when the emperor is speaking. But Julian, seeing Maximus, stopped in mid-sentence and ran, arms outstretched, to embrace that old charlatan. I’m glad I was not there.
Julian then presented Maximus to the senate, calling him the world’s wisest and holiest man and stressing what an honour it was for all present to be able to do homage to such a man. Needless to say, everyone was scandalized. Maximus and his wife were given an entire wing of the Sacred Palace for their own court; and there were now two emperors in Constantinople. Maximus’s wife did a considerable business on her own as a sort of unofficial Master of the Offices, arranging audiences with the Emperor and granting petitions. They made a fortune in those months. They were a rare couple.
Though I am not in the habit of laughing at anyone’s death, I still chuckle to myself when I think of her death. Do you know the story? After the Persian campaign when Maximus was first in trouble, he decided to commit suicide. His wife agreed that this was the correct thing to do. She also insisted on killing herself. With her usual brisk efficiency, she put their affairs in order; bought poison and composed farewell letters of enormous length. Then, gravely, they said good-bye to one another. She
drank first and promptly died. Maximus lost his nerve, and survived. To this day I find myself smiling whenever I think of that preposterous couple.
Julian Augustus
At the beginning of April, for my own amusement, I summoned the bishops to the palace. After all, I am Pontifex Maximus and all religion is my province, though I would not have the temerity to say to any priests what Constantius said to the bishops at the synod of Milan in 355: “My will shall be your guiding line!”
I received the Galileans in the Daphne Palace. I wore the diadem and I held the orb. (Galileans are always impressed by the ritual show of power.) It was a remarkable occasion. Nearly a thousand bishops were present, including those whom I had recalled from exile. As a result, there are often two bishops for one see. This makes for much bitter wrangling. They are not gentle, these priests of the Nazarene.
At first the bishops were afraid of me, but I put them at their ease. I told them that I was not a persecutor, though others before me had been, not all of them emperors. This was directed at several militant bishops who had, by violence, destroyed their enemies.
“No one,” I said, “shall ever be hurt by me because of his faith.”
There was a general easing of tension. But they were still wary.
“Of course I should like to convince you that I am right. But since what is true is as plain as the sun, if you will not see it, you will not see it. But I cannot allow you to hurt others, as you have done for so many years. I will not list the crimes you have committed, or permitted. The murders, the thieving, the viciousness more usual to the beasts of the field than to priests, even of the wrong god.”
I held up a thick sheaf of documents. “Here are your latest crimes. Murders requested, and property requested… oh, how you love the riches of this world! Yet your religion preaches that you should not resist injury or go to law or even hold property, much less steal it! You have been taught to consider nothing your own, except your place in the other and better world. Yet you wear jewels, rich robes, build huge basilicas, all in this world, not the next. You were taught to despise money, yet you amass it.
When done an iniury, real or imagined, you were told not to retaliate, that it was wrong to return evil for evil. Yet you battle with one another in lawless mobs, torturing and killing those you disapprove of.
You have endangered not only the true religion but the security of the state whose chief magistrate I am, by heaven’s will. You are not worthy even of the Nazarene. If you cannot live by those precepts which you are willing to defend with the knife and with poison” (a reference to the poisoning of Arius by Athanasius), “what are you then but hypocrites?”
All through this there had been mumbling. Now there was a fine Galilean eruption. They began to shout and rant, shaking their fists not only at me—which is treason—but at one another—which is folly, for they ought to be united against the common enemy. I tried to speak but I could not be heard, and my voice can be heard by an entire army out-of-doors! The tribune of the Scholarians looked alarmed, but I motioned to him to do nothing.
Finally, like the bull of Mithras, I bellowed, “The Franks and Germans listened when I spoke!” This had a quieting effect. They remembered where they were.
I was then all mildness. I apologized for having spoken harshly. It was only because I had such respect for the words of the Nazarene, as well as for the strict law of the Jews which he—as a Jew—
sought only to extol. This caused a slight but brief murmur.! then said that I was willing to give the Nazarene a place among the gods between Isis and Dionysos, but that no man who had the slightest reverence for the unique creator of the universe could possibly conceive that this provincial wonder-worker could have been the creator himself. Before they could start their monkeychatter, I spoke quickly
and loudly, “Yet I am willing to believe he is a manifestation of the One, a healer, much like Asklepios, and as such, I am willing to honour him.”
I then repeated what I had written in the Edict of 4 February. There was to be universal toleration.
The Galileans could do as they pleased among their own kind though they were not to persecute each other, much less Hellenists. I suggested that they be less greedy in the acquiring of property. I admitted that I was causing them hardship when I asked for the return of temple lands, but I pointed out that they had done us considerable hardship when they had stolen them. I suggested that if they were less contemptuous of our ancient myths—Kronos swallowing his children—we might be less rude about their triple god and his virgin-birth.
“After all, as educated men, we should realize that myths always stand for other things. They are toys for children teething. The man knows that the toy horse is not a true horse but merely suggests the idea of a horse to a baby’s mind. When we pray before the statue of Zeus, though the statue contains him as everything must, the statue is not the god himself but only a suggestion of him. Surely, as fellow priests, we can be frank with one another about these grown-up matters.
“Now I must ask you to keep the peace in the cities. If you do not, as chief magistrate I shall discipline you. But you have nothing to fear from me as Pontifex Maximus, if you behave with propriety and obey the civil laws and conduct your disputes without resorting, as you have in the past, to fire and the knife. Preach only the Nazarene’s words and we shall be able to live with one another. But of course you are not content with those few words. You add new things daily. You nibble at Hellenism, you appropriate our holy days, our ceremonies, all in the name of a Jew who knew them not. You rob us, and reject us, while quoting the arrogant Cyprian who said that outside your faith there can be no salvation! Is one to believe that a thousand generations of men, among them Plato and Homer, are lost because they did not worship a Jew who was supposed to be god? a man not born when the world began? You invite us to believe that the One God is not only ‘jealous’, as the Jews say, but evil? I am afraid it takes extraordinary self-delusion to believe such things. But I am not here to criticize you, only to ask you to keep the peace and never to forget that the greatness of our world was the gift of other gods and a different, more subtle philosophy, reflecting the variety in nature.”
An ancient bishop got to his feet. He wore the simple robes of a holy man rather than those of a prince. “There is but One God. Only one from the beginning of time.”
“I agree. And he may take as many forms as he chooses for he is all-powerful.”
“Only one form has the One God.” The old voice though thin was firm.
“Was this One God revealed in the holy book of the Jews?”
“He was, Augustus. And he remains.”
“Did not Moses say in the book called Deuteronomy that ‘You shall not add to the word I have given you, nor take away from it’? And did he not curse anyone who does not abide by the Law God gave him?”
There was a pause. The bishops were subtle men and they were perfectly aware that I had set some sort of trap for them, but they were forced to proceed according to their holy book, for nothing in this part of it is remotely ambiguous.
“All that you say Moses said is not only true but eternal.”
“Then,” I let the trap snap shut, “why do you alter the Law to suit yourselves? In a thousand ways you have perverted not only Moses but the Nazarene and you have done it ever since the day the blasphemous Paul of Tarsus said ‘Christ is the end of the Law’! You are neither Hebrew nor Galilean but opportunists.”
The storm broke. The bishops were on their feet shouting sacred texts, insults, threats. For a moment I thought they were going to attack me on the throne, but even in their fury they kept within bounds.
I rose and crossed to the door at the back, ignored by the bishops who ,vere now abusing one another as well as me. As I was about to leave the room, the ancient bishop who had challenged me suddenly barred my way. He was Maris of Chalcedon. I have never seen such malevolence in a human face.
“You are cursed!” He nearly spat in my face. The Scholarian tribune drew his sword but I motioned for him to stand back.
“By you perhaps, but not by God.” I was mild, even Galilean.
“Apostate!” He hurled the word at me. I smiled. “Not I. You. I worship as men have worshipped since time began. It is you who have abandoned not only philosophy but God himself.”
“You will burn in hell!”
“Beware, old man, you are the one in danger. All of you. Don’t think that the several generations which have passed since the Nazarene died count for more than an instant in eternity. The past does not cease because you ignore it. What you worship is evil. You have chosen division, cruelty, superstition.
Well, I mean to stop the illness, to cut out the cancer, to strengthen the state… Now step aside, my good fellow, and let me pass.”
He stepped not aside but directly in my path. The tribune of the Scholarians said suddenly, “He is blind, Augustus.”
The old man nodded. “And glad that I cannot see you, Apostate.”
“You must ask the Nazarene to restore your sight. If he loves you, it is a simple matter.” With this, I stepped around him. As I did, he made a hissing noise, the sort old women make when they fear the presence of an evil demon. He also made the sign of the cross on his forehead. I responded to this gracious gesture by making the sign which wards off the evil eye, but it was lost on him.
Spring came early to the city. It was an exciting time, full of new things accomplished. I attended the senate regularly. I was the first emperor since Augustus to act simply as a member of that body rather than as its lord and dictator. Priscus thinks they detest me for my taking part in their debates; perhaps he’s fight, but even if they do, it is always good to restore meaning to ancient institutions.
I made many reforms. I removed all Galileans from the Scholarian Guard. I refused to allow any Galilean to be governor of a province. There was some outcry at this. But I am right. A governor who sympathizes with the Galileans can hardly be expected to carry out my edicts, particularly those which have to do with lhe rebuilding of temples. Several senators took me to task in debate: why if I was so tolerant of all religions did I persecute Galilean officials? For obvious reasons my answer was more sophistic than honest.
“Do the conscript fathers agree that a governor must uphold the laws of the state?” There was agreement. “Are not there certain crimes-such as treason-which carry with them the death penalty?”
Again agreement. “Would you also agree that no man could be an effective governor who did not have the fight to sentence the guilty to death?” A few had now got the drift to my argument. “Well, then how can a Galilean be a governor when he is expressly enjoined by the Nazarene never to take another man’s life, as you may read in that book which is said to be by Matthew, Chapter XXVI, verse 52, and again in the work of the writer John?” Always use their own weapons against them; they use ours against us.
I removed the cross from all military and civil insignia, as well as from the coins I minted, substituting instead images of the gods. I addressed everyone as “my good fellow”, imitating Socrates.
Finally, I took direct charge of the army. The emperor of course is commander-in-chief, but if he is not an experienced soldier he can never be more than a sort of totem or sacred image, the actual business of war being left to the field commanders. But with my own Gallic troops as core, I was able to dominate the army, aided by the officers I had brought with me from Gaul, particularly Nevitta, Dagalaif, and Jovinus; from the old army of the East, I retained Victor, Arintheus and my cousin Procopius.
Curiously enough, I heard nothing directly from Sapor when I became Emperor. This was a serious breach of etiquette, for the Roman and Persian rulers always exchange ritual greetings upon the accession of one or the other. Yet there was only silence from Ctesiphon. But I did learn something about Sapor when a most opulent and curious embassy arrived in the city at the beginning of May. The ambassadors were a brown-skinned, delicate little people from Ceylon, an island off the coast of India.
They brought rich gifts. They wished to establish trade with us, and we were most receptive. Their ambassador told me that Sapor had followed closely my campaigns in Gaul and feared me. How strange to think that an Oriental king at the edge of the world should know all about my conquests three thousand miles away! But then I know quite a lot about him. Sapor and I have more in common with one another than we do with our own intimates, for we share the same sort of responsibility and the same awesome power. If I take him captive, we should have much to talk about.
I planned a winter campaign, recalling the old saying that in cold weather “a Persian won’t draw his hand from his cloak”. Unfortunately, as it turned out, I was several months off schedule. But meanwhile, Nevitta trained the troops and their spirits were high; even the Celts did not mind the East as much as they thought they would.
During this time, I got to know the Persian Prince Ormisda. He is a half-brother of Sapor, and the Persian throne is rightfully his.
But when he was a boy Sapor exiled him. After a brief stay at the court of Armenia, Ormisda attached himself to us. For forty years (he is sixty) he has dreamed of only one thing, a Roman conquest of Persia that would place him on the throne. Constantine, Constantius and myself have all used him as a soldier and as a source of information. But of the three I am the first to try and make his dream a reality. Meanwhile, he is invaluable to me. He has many secret partisans at the court of Ctesiphon; he is a fine soldier who fought with Constantine in Europe; and of course he always used to accompany Constantius whenever that bold warrior would assemble the Eastern army for a march to the Euphrates.
Once at the river’s edge, the Emperor would make camp and wait until Sapor and the Persian army appeared. As soon as the enemy was in view, Constantius would then withdraw with superb dignity to Antioch or Tarsus and .go into winter quarters. These military pageants got to be a most depressing joke. Ormisda was in despair, until I became emperor. Now he is content. As I write these lines, he is almost Great King of Persia.
In my leisure time—there was no leisure!—I sat up late with friends and we talked of a thousand things. I was particularly close to Maximus; in fact, it was like old times in Ephesus. As always, he was the link between the gods and me. I recall one evening as being particularly significant; even revelatory.
A number of us were gathered on the garden terrace of the Daphne Palace. It was a warm night, and there was a splendid view of the sea of Marmora, glittering in the full moon’s light. Flowering trees and shrubs filled the air with fragrance. Far off the lights of the city flickered at the sea’s edge. The night was still, except for us and the cry of an occasional guard as he challenged strangers. Ormisda seemed eager to speak to me; I motioned for him to come with me to the far end of the terrace. Here we sat on a ledge among roses in their first bloom.
“Sapor does not want a war, Augustus.” Ormisda still speaks with a heavy Persian accent despite a lifetime among us.
“So the Singhalese embassy tells me.” I was non-committal; I beat a war-tattoo with my heels on the ledge.
“Do you know what the Persians call you?”
“I can imagine.” I sighed. It is amazing how one’s intimates enjoy repeating the terrible things said of us. In ancient times those who brought bad news were promptly put to death: one of the pleasures of classical tyranny!
“The thunderbolt.”
“Because I am the agent of Zeus?”
“Because of the speed with which you crossed Europe and surprised the army at Sirmium.”
I was pleased. “It’s as good as a battle won to be feared by your enemy.”
“They fear ’the thunderbolt’.”
“But then Constantius’s army fears Sapor. So the fears are now balanced.”
Ormisda came to the point. “They will do everything possible to placate you. I am told by…” He gestured delicately with his rose. He knew that I knew he maintained close connections with the dissident party in Persia. “… that Sapor is willing to withdraw from the border, to leave Mesopotamia.
Almost anything you ask, he will do.”
I looked at him gravely. He looked at me. A long moment. Then I smiled. “I promise you to listen to no embassy.”
“But I did not suggest that, Augustus.”
“No embassy. No treaty. Only war to the end. That is a holy vow.”
“I believe you, Lord. I thank you.” He spoke softly, in his curiously accented Greek.
“And it’ the gods are with us, I shall crown you myself at Ctesiphon, with Sapor as…”
“Footstool!” Ormisda laughed, referring to a particularly gruesome custom of the Persian kings, who skin captured rulers and stuff them for cushions. Then Praetextatus joined us on the ledge. As much as I esteem him, I find his company sometimes burdensome. He has no lightness in him, only a constant noble gravity. Yet in religious matters, I could not manage without him.
“Are we making progress?” That was my usual greeting to him.
“I hope so, Augustus. I believe so. Only last week my wife initiated a hundred local ladies into Hecate’s mysteries.”
“Wonderful!” And it was, for women are the operatives of religion and though they seldom possess the true religious sense, they are excellent at getting things done and making converts. The early Galileans devoted much time to flattering slave-women in order to win over their mistresses. Even at Rome today, it is not uncommon for senators to uphold fiercely the old gods in the senate only to come home to a house filled with Galilean women, singing Galilean songs.
“When I leave for the south, Praetextatus, I shall want you to fill an important post for me.”
“What is that, Augustus?” Noble as he was, I detected that sudden alertness in the face which I have come to recognize as the premonitory look of one who hopes to be raised up.
“If it suits you, I mean to make you proconsul of Greece.” It suited him beautifully, and at great length he thanked me. I then gave him instructions to be as useful as he could to such old friends as Prohaeresius and his niece Macrina.
After this, I left the ledge of roses and walked down a flight of shallow steps, breathing the night a’rr with some delight, aware how little opportunity I now have, simply, to be. For one whose essential interest is philosophy I have managed to be almost everything else: soldier, administrator, lawyer…
whatever is not contemplative I am it!
Maximus was standing at the foot of the steps in the shadow of a tall cypress. He was looking at the moon. In his hand he held a small staff which, from time to time, he held up to the sky, shifting it this way and that, the shadow crossing his face, drained now of colour in the pale light.
“What are the omens?” I stayed outside the circle of the tree, not wanting to disturb what could have been a spell. Maximus did not answer for some minutes as he continued to study the staff and the moon from various angles.
“Good,” he said at last, stepping outside the circle of the tree’s shadow. “At almost any time this year
the omens are good. No matter what you attempt, you will succeed.”
“We have come a long way,” I said idly, looking down at the city, and the sea beyond. It is awesome to think that everything is one’s own, at least for the brief space of a life—which is why I have always the sense I must hurry to get things done, that there is hardly any time at all for a man to impress his quality and passion upon a world which will continue after him, as unconcerned as it was when it preceded him.
Each day that I live I say to myself: the visible world is mine, use it, change it, but be quick, for the night comes all too fast and nothing is ever entirely finished, nothing.
“You have made Praetextatus proconsul of Greece.”
Once again Maximus knew what-until a few moments before—only I had known. Does he read my mind, the way the Chaldeans do? or does he get instruction from his private genius? No matter what his method, he can always anticipate not only my mood but my administrative appointments!
Priscus: Julian was often wilfully gullible. Maximus had been standing just below the ledge when the announcement was made. He did not need to consult “his private genius”, just his ears. As a matter of fact Maximus’s ears did resemble those of a fox: long, pointed and slightly bent forward. He was a notorious eavesdropper, proving that nature is always considerate in putting together a man. Though as philosophers, we might argue that a man born with the ears of a fox might then be impelled to become an eavesdropper.
Julian Augustus
“I saw something interesting tonight.” Maximus took me by the arm and led me along the terrace to a bench which faces the sea. Several small ships were making for the new harbour I am building just to the north. We could hear the long cry of sailors across the waters, and the response from the harbour. “Safe landing,” I prayed to Poseidon out of habit. We sat down.
“All the signs for several weeks have pointed to a marvellous victory for you—for us.” He indicated my star, which shone at that moment in the west. I nodded. “I have had good signs, too.”
“Yesterday—while praying to Cybele—the goddess spoke to me.”
I was impressed. Maximus speaks often to gods of the lower rank {and of course to demons of every sort) but very seldom does he hear the voice of Cybele, the Great Mother; Earth herself. Maximus was excited, though he tried to disguise it. He had every reason to be exultant, for to speak with Cybele is an extraordinary feat. No, not feat, for one cannot storm heaven; rather, a beautifuI sign that the prime movers of the universe now thought him ready and worthy to receive their messages.
“I was praying in her shrine. Down there.” He pointed to the makeshift temple I had built near the Daphne Palace. “The chapel was dark, as prescribed. The incense heavy. Her image dim by the light of a single lamp. I prayed as I always pray to her…”
“The full verses? To the seventh power?”
He nodded. “Everything, as prescribed. But then, instead of the usual silence and comfort, I felt terror, as if I had strayed to the edge of a precipice. A coldness such as I had never felt before came over me. I thought I might faint, die. Had I offended her? Was I doomed? But then she spoke. The light from the lamp suddenly flared and revealed her image, but it was no longer bronze, it was she!”
I murmured a prayer to myself, chilled by his account.
“‘Maximus,’ she called my name and her voice was like a silver bell. I hailed her by her titles. Then she spoke. ‘He whom you love is well loved by me.’”
I could hardly move or breathe while Maximus spoke. It was as if I myself were now listening to the
voice of this goddess.
“‘He whom the gods love as their true son will be Lord of all the earth.’”
“Persia…?” I whispered. “Did she mean Persia?”
But Maximus continued in the voice of the goddess.
“’… of all the earth. For we shall send him a second spirit to aid him in the long marches.’”
“Hermes?”
“‘One who is now with us shall be with him until he reaches the end of the earth and finishes the work which that spirit began, for our glory.’” Maximus stopped, as though he had come to the end of a page. There was a long silence. I waited, then Maximus turned to me, eyes flashing, beard like water flowing in the moonlight.
“Alexander!” He breathed the name. “You are to finish his work.”
“In Persia?”
“And India and all that lies to the farthest east!” Maximus took the edge of my cloak in his hand and held it to his lips, the gesture of a suppliant doing homage. “You are Alexander.”
“If this is true…”
“If! You have heard her words.”
“Then we shall break Sapor.”
“And after that nothing shall stand in your way from Persia to the eastern ocean. She asks only that you restore her temple at Pessinus.”
“Gladly!”
Maximus made a secret and holy gesture to my star. I did the same. Then we were interrupted by Priscus, who said in his loud clear voice, “Star-gazing again?”
Priscus: If I had known what they were up to, I should have had a good deal more to say in my “loud clear voice”. From certain things Julian let slip during the Persian campaign I did get the impression that he believed he was in some spectacular way supported by the gods, but I had no idea that he actually thought he was Alexander, or at least had the ghost of Alexander tucked inside of him, located somewhere between the heart and the liver. This particular madness explains a good deal about the last stages of that campaign when Julian-Alexander began to act very peculiarly indeed. Personally, if I were a general, I would not like to be inhabited by another general, especially one who went insane! But Maximus was capable of anything; and Julian never doubted him.
This is all there is to the Constantinople section of the memoir. Julian intended to give a full account of all his edicts and appointments, but he never got round to it. You can doubtless obtain this material from the Record Office.
In May, Julian left Constantinople, to tour Galatia and Cappadocia, en route to his winter quarters at Antioch. Though he said nothing publicly, everyone knew that the Eastern army would assemble at Antioch, in readiness for the invasion of Persia. I stayed on in Constantinople because I was hard pressed for money at this time. Unlike Maximus and his wife, who were making a fortune out of their imperial protdgd, I asked for nothing and I got nothing. Julian never thought of money unless you did.
Then he was generous. Fortunately, I was able to give a series of lectures at the University. Old Nicocles was most helpful in getting me pupils. You knew him, didn’t you? But of course. He forced you to leave the city back in the 40’s. A sad business. But Nicocles was a good friend to me and I was soon able to send Hippia quite a large amount of money. Also, Julian allowed me to live at the Sacred Palace while I taught, so my personal expenses were slight. One interesting detail: just before Julian left for Antioch, Oribasius returned from Greece. He was significantly silent and there was no longer any talk of
restoring Apollo’s temple. It was not until many years later that Oribasius told me what had hal> pened at Delphi, the so-called “navel of the earth”.
Oribasius found modern Delphi very sad indeed. The works of art which had once decorated the numerous shrines are all gone. Constantine alone stole 2,700 statues. There is no sight quite so forlorn as acres of empty pedestals. The town was deserted except for a few tattered Cynics, who offered to show Oribasius about. I’ve never visited Delphi myself, but one has always heard that the people who lived there were the most rapacious on earth, even worse than the tradesmen at Eleusis. I cannot say that I feel par. ticularly sorry for them now. They had a thousand years of robbing visitors. It was unreasonable to think that this arrangement would last for ever.
I suspect Oribasius disliked all religion, much the way I do. But where I prefer the mind of man to any sort of magic, Oribasius preferred the body. What he could not see and touch did not interest him.
He was an unusual friend for a prince. His only passion was medicine, which I have always regarded as a branch of magic, though his approach to it was blessedly matter-of-fact. Have you noticed that whenever a physician prescribes such-andsuch a treatment, and one follows it and is cured, he is always slightly surprised? Everything a doctor does is guess-work. That is why he must be as good at acting as any Sophist; his cures depend entirely upon a convincing show of authority.
At the temple of Apollo, Oribasius called out, “Where is the priest? No answer. He went inside. Part of the roof had fallen in: dust was everywhere. Just behind the pedestal where the god’s statue had been, he found a sleeping priest with a half-empty skin of wine beside him. It took Oribasius some minutes to wake the man. When told that Oribasius was the Emperor’s envoy, he became quite nervous. “It’s been a bad season for the temple, very bad. Our revenues are gone. We don’t even get the few visitors we had last year. But you must tell the Augustus that we still go about our holy tasks, even though there’s no money to fix the roof, or to pay for sacrifices.” He got to his feet, swaying from drink. Oribasius asked about the oracle.
“Oh, we’re still functioning. We have an excellent Pythoness. She’s rather old but she gets good results. Apollo talks to her all the time, she says. We’re quite pleased with her work. I’m sure you’ll find her satisfactory. Naturally, you’ll want to talk to her. I’ll go ask when she can receive you. She has bad days, you know…” He gestured vaguely. Then he disappeared down a steep flight of steps.
Oribasius examined the temple. All the famous statues were gone, including the one of Homer which used to be by the door. Incidentally, Julian found this particular statue in a storeroom of the Sacred Palace, and had it set up in his library. I’ve seen it myself: a fine work, the face full of sadness, Homeric in fact.
The priest returned to say that the Pythoness would consult the oracle the following day. Meanwhile, the usual propitiatory ceremonies must be enacted, particularly the sacrifice. The priest salivated at the word.
Next day, Oribasius and the priest sacrificed a goat on the altar outside the temple. As soon as the animal was dead, the priest sprinkled it with holy water and the legs trembled, supposedly a good sign.
After this, they entered the temple and descended the steep steps to the crypt. Against his will, Oribasius found the whole nonsense most impressive.
They sat in a sort of waiting-room cut in rock. Opposite them was a door which led into the cell of the god. Here, from a fissure in the earth, steam rises; here, too, is the navel of the world—the omphalos
—a round stone said to have been flung to earth by Zeus. The priestess entered from the temple. She looked at neither priest nor visitor. According to Oribasius, she was immensely old and shrunken and toothless.
“She is now pure,” whispered the priest. “She has just bathed in the Kastalian spring.” The Pythoness threw a number of laurel leaves and barley meal on a brazier; the room filled with an acrid smoke. “Now
she is making the air pure,” said the priest. Then Oribasius, eyes streaming with tears from the smoke, followed the Pythoness into the inner cell where, for a thousand years, Apollo has spoken to man. Just beside the omphalos was a tripod, on which the Pythoness sat, cross-legged, her face bent over the steam as it escaped from the earth below her. She muttered incantations.
“All right,” whispered the priest. “She is ready to hear you.”
In a loud voice Oribasius said: “I come from Flavius Claudius Julianus, Augustus and Pontilex Maximus. He does homage to the god Apollo, and to all the true gods.”
The Pythoness sang softly to herself during this, her attention fixed on the steam at the foot of the tripod.
“The Augustus wishes guidance from the god Apollo. He will do whatever he is commanded.”
“The question?” The old voice was thin and indistinct.
“Shall the Emperor restore the holy temple of Delphi?”
For a long moment the only sound in the shrine was the faint hissing noise steam makes escaping rock. That sound is possibly the origin of the legend that the earth goddess Ge had a son who was a serpent called Python. The serpent controlled the oracle until Apollo killed him and threw the body down a crevice. The steam is supposed to come from the corpse. The hissing sound is the serpent’s dying voice.
At last the Pythoness stirred. She took several deep breaths of steam. She gasped; she coughed; she rolled her eyes; she clung with claw-like hands to the top of the tripod, rocking back and forth. Then she was motionless. When she finally spoke, her voice was firm and distinct despite the absence of teeth.
“Tell the King: on earth has fallen the glorious dwelling, and the water-springs that spoke are still.
Nothing is left the god, no roof, no shelter, and in his hand the prophet laurel flowers no more.”
That was all. The Pythoness shut her eyes. She seemed to sleep. Oribasius and the priest departed.
The priest was distraught. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Of course Apollo wants his temple rebuilt. I can’t think what got into her. Of course these messages are always open to interpretation. Sometimes they are deliberately perverse, and obscure…” But it was no good.
I asked Oribasius what Julian said when he was told the oracle. “Nothing,” said Oribasius. “Except to ask me to mention it to no one.”
Personally, I am certain that the priestess was in the pay of the Christians. They knew what importance Julian set by oracles, especially this one. Why do I think they had a hand in the prophecy?
Because if the priestess was genuine she would have done everything possible to see that Delphi was restored. She would not have admitted in so many words that the game was up. And to speak aljainst the interests of her own establishment meant that she had been made a better offer. Of course I do not believe—as Julian did—that Apollo speaks to us through a succession of ladies who have fits from breathing steam. The whole thing was always a fake. But this time I am positive it was a double fake.
Oribasius rather agreed with me when I told him my theory.
As I said, Julian left Constantinople in high spirits and I did not see him again for some months.
When I did, I noticed a great change in his mood. The euphoria of Con,stantinople was gone. He was uneasy and touchy and of course he hated Antioch, which he describes.