Julian Augustus
On Io May I left Constantinople for Antioch. All omens were favourable. The weather was good, though far too dry for that time of year. Instead of going straight south to Syria, I swung to the east, passing through Phrygia and Galatia.! pretended that I wanted to see for myself what these territories were like so that [ might have some firsthand knowledge of their problems when it came time for the tax reforms the new Count of the Sacred Largesse, Felix, insisted that I make. But my actual motive was to visit the temple of Cybele at Pessinus and there make solemn offering to my patroness.
I was accompanied by the Petulantes and Scholarians. The remainder of the army of the East was to gather at Antioch in the autumn. For a number of reasons, I had decided to postpone the invasion of Persia to the following spring. This would give me half a year at Antioch to train the troops and to put in effect various civil and religious reforms. Of my close friends only Maximus accompanied me on this progress. Priscus remained in Constantinople, while Oribasius preferred to make his own way to Antioch, stopping at out-of-the-way villages to look for cures-and he accuses me of liking magic!
It was good to be on the move again, even though, try as I might to reduce my retinue, it was still large and cumbersome. Half the Sacred Consistory attended me, as well as most of the administrative staff of the Sacred Palace. I was particularly bored—yet impressed—by Count Felix, who was acknowledged to be the most brilliant juggler of figures in the empire, a reputation he never allowed me to forget, since his vanity was boundless. Whenever I would rather timidly try to recall my own experiences wkh the finances of Gaul, he would point a long finger at me and, in the tone of master to schoolboy, define the extent of my ignorance, the folly of my instincts, and the need I had of his advice which was invariably: never forgive tax arrears. I came to dread his tall crane-like figure as it approached me after each Consistory, the long dour face set primly in a mask of false patience. But Felix was remarkable in his grasp of detail and, like it or not, I learned a good deal from him.
We crossed the Bosphorus on a fine spring day. The countryside was yellow with wild flowers and the warm air smelled of honey. We passed by Chalcedon but did not enter the city. At Libyssa, I paused to look at the grave of Hannibal. Like my predecessors, I honour him. I particularly admire him as a soldier, for his campaigns in Italy were perhaps the most remarkable of all time, excepting always those of Alexander. No one will ever know why Hannibal failed to take Rome—which is proof to me that the gods on that occasion intervened to save Rome from its most resourceful enemy. The grave is shabby: only a plain marble stele records the death of the exile.
We then proceeded to Nicomedia. This was a sad occasion, for Nicomedia is now in ruins. On 24
August 358 earthquakes destroyed half the city. It was the worst natural disaster in our time. We reached the outskirts of Nicomedia in the late afternoon. Here I was met by the senate of the city, all in darkest mourning. As we passed through streets filled with rubble, I nearly wept; so many familiar sights were gone or altered beyond recognition. Along the street to the palace the people stood, intent and watchful.
Every now and then one would step forward to kiss my hand or touch the purple. Some I recognized as fellow students from the University, others as people I had observed in the forum. It was a wretched day.
I granted Nicomedia a considerable sum of money for rebuilding. Felix thought I was setting a bad precedent, but I pointed out to him that this was not just any city but a former world capital, made
memorable by the fact that it was here on 24 February 303, Diocletian launched his edict against the Galileans, ordering their charnel houses razed and their communities dissolved. Unfortunately, Diocletian retired two years later and his work was not completed. If it had been… but that is wishful thinking. To me has fallen the same task, now doubly difficult, for the enemy have had half a century in which to establish themselves not only among the ignorant but in the Sacred Palace itself.
I could not wait to get away from Nicomedia. As soon at it was decently possible, I bade farewell to the senate. I should note here that everywhere I went I set about restoring the temples, and it was not easy. Most of them are in ruins or occupied by Galileans. To make matters worse, the priesthood in many places has completely died out. Provinces like Cappadocia are now entirely atheist. Yet I forced no one. Instead, I argued. I reasoned. Occasionally, I confess, I bribed the people to honour as they ought to honour their constant deities. I was criticized for this, particularly by Count Felix, who has no interest in religious matters and thought it folly to give anything to local temples, much less to the people themselves. But I felt it was worth doing. No matter what impels a man to pray to a god, the fact that he performs the ritual act is itself an act of worship and a beginning, even though his heart is false. I do not delude myself that I made many converts. Though I spoke at length to many groups in Galatia, Cappadocia, Cilicia, I convinced only a few. I am perfectly aware of this. Yet one must begin somewhere, even if it means talking to stones. I now realize that the business of restoration will be slow, but it will be sure. Meanwhile, the Galileans are hopelessly divided, and in their division is our hope.
At Pessinus I went straight to the temple of Cybele, at the foot of the town’s acropolis. The temple is very old and very impressive, but in disrepair. It has been a holy place ever since the statue of the goddess fell from heaven. This was about the time she gave birth to her son, the legendary King Midas, who built the first sanctuary, in honour of his mother. The myth that everything Midas touched turned to gold, though symbolically fascinating—and certainly cautionary!—was probably based on the fact that the countryside around Pessinus is rich in iron. Midas was one of the first to make and sell weapons of iron and this made him fabulously rich. What he touched indeed turned to metal, but the metal was iron. In the side of the acropolis, next to Midas’s tomb, I saw with my own eyes the world’s first foundry, given to the king by his mother.
I offered a great sacrifice to Cybele, but the townspeople would not take part in the ceremonies even though I offered them a bounty, to the horror of Count Felix. More than ever I relied on Maximus, who is in constant communication with the goddess. It was he who found me Arsacius, a Hellenist whom I appointed High Priest of Galatia. Arsacius is old and garrulous, but he gets things done. In less than a week he had enrolled some twenty priests in the service of Cybele. On several occasions I lectured them at length on the necessity of proving themselves to be as virtuous in all their dealings as the Galileans claim to be in theirs. I particularly forbade them to attend the theatre, enter taverns, or involve themselves in shady business deals. I also ordered them to set up hostels for the poor and to be particularly generous to those who are Galilean. I then assigned to the diocese of Galatia an annual allowance of 30,000 sacks of corn and 60,000 pints of wine, onefifth to be used for the poor who serve the priests, and the rest to be given to strangers and beggars, since “from Zeus come all strangers and beggars, and a gift, though small, is precious”. That quotation is not from the Nazarene, but from our own Homer! My last night in Pessinus, I sat up late with Maximus, discussing the nature of the Great Mother Goddess. He was more than usually eloquent and I was more than usually inspired by him, and of course by her spirit. Cybele is the first of the gods, the mother of all; and though I do not approve of eunuchs in politics, I have only veneration for those of her priests who, imitating Attis, castrate themselves in order to serve the goddess completely. After Maximus left me, I was so keyed up that I began to dictate a hymn to the Mother of the Gods. I completed it before morning. Maximus thinks it easily my best work in that vein.
Next we moved on to Aucyra. Here I was besieged by a thousand litigants. It was like a visit to
Egypt. I did my best to give justice, but my temper was getting short. Reports of religious dissension were coming in from all sides. Some of our own people, excessively zealous, were damaging Galilean property, while the Galileans were doing everything possible to prevent us from reopening the temples.
Sooner or later I knew that I would have to make a stand and by some harsh gesture convince the Galileans than I meant to be obeyed. But for the moment, I reasoned and argued. I promised Pessinus funds for public works, if the townspeople would support the temple of Cybele. I refused to visit Nisibis until they became less hostile to Hellenism. I deposed several bishops and warned the remainder that there was to be no interference with my plans. I don’t know what I should have done without Maximus.
He was always at my side; his energy never flagged; he was always a source of consolation, and I needed consoling. At Ancyra I lost my temper. I had spent three days in the courthouse, listening to men lie about one another. The creative lengths to which human malice will go quite inspire awe. One man, determined to destroy a business rival, came to me every day bringing new charges against his enemy.
Each was promptly dismissed. Finally, the accuser declared in a tinging voice, “He has committed high treason, Augustus. He aspires to your place.”
This got my full attention. “What evidence do you have?”
“Two weeks ago he ordered a silk robe, of purple!” Everyone gasped with horror at this lése majest&eacut;. I could stand it no longer. I pulled off my red shoes and flung them as hard as I could at the idiot’s head. “Then give him these shoes! They go with the purple.”
The terrified rogue fell prone in front of me. “And then remind him-and yourself-that it takes more than clothes to be an emperor!” I was not particularly pleased with myself for this outburst, but I was under great tension.
From Ancyra I moved west and south. At what they call the Gates, a mountain pass connecting Cappadocia and Cilicia, I was met by Celsus, a governor of Cilicia. I had known him slightly in Athens, where he had been a fellow student. He was also a disciple of Libanius. I’m afraid that I was so overjoyed to see a friendly Hellenic face that I kissed him in full view of the Petulantes. Then I let him ride beside me in my carriage as far as Tarsus. In a strange country, surrounded by hostile people, one clings to mere acquaintances as though they were brothers. That day I would gladly have made Celsus praetorian prefect of the East, simply to show my pleasure in talking to someone who believed as I did.
On the road to Tarsus, Celsus told me many things. He was not optimistic about my revival of Hellenism, but he felt that, given time, we might prevail. He did agree with me that the Galileans would eventually kill one another off.
We also discussed the most important political problem in the empire: the town councils or senates.
Everywhere I have travelled as emperor, I am met by crowds of well-to-do citizens begging me to exempt them from serving in their local councils. What was once the highest honour a provincial might aspire to is now a cruel burden, because the councils are responsible for raising taxes. This means that in a year of poor harvest when the people are unable to pay their taxes, the members of the local council must make up the tax deficit out of their own pockets. Not unnaturally, no one wants to serve on a town council. The only alternative would be to govern directly through imperial decree, and that is not practical for obvious reasons. The whole thing is a mess and no emperor has known how to handle it. I don’t. Like my predecessors, I give rousing speeches to those concerned. I tell them that it is a great honour to govern a city and that the state would perish without the cooperation of its worthlest citizens.
But the burghers still beg for exemption from public service and I can’t blame them. One solution of course is not to hold the councils responsible for the collection of taxes.
But that would cut the state’s revenue in half, which we cannot afford. Someone must see to tax-collecting and who should be better qualified than the leading citizens of the community? So I have chosen to reinvigorate the councils rather than change the system drastically. One way to distribute the
responsibility more fairly is to allow no exemptions from service in the councils. Under Constantius both the Galilean priests and the military were exempt, I have changed this, making more rather than fewer citizens available for service. There have been a good many repercussions, but I think in time the communities will be strengthened. It is certainly an intolerable state of affairs when men of property refuse to be senators in a famous city like Antioch.
I stayed a number of days at Tarsus, a pleasant town on a lake, connected by canal with the sea.
Celsus assembled an interesting group of philosophers to meet me, and we had several enjoyable discussions. The modern Tarsians are quite worthy of their predecessors, the great Stoics of six centuries ago. I even went swimming one afternoon in the Cydnus River, despite the fact that Alexander was almost killed after his swim in that river. Although Tarsus is predominantly Galilean (there are innumerable memorials to the devilish Paul who was born here), I found the inhabitants reasonable and simple in their ways. I was almost sad when it came time to leave. But I consoled myself with the thought that I was exchanging Tarsus for Antioch, the Queen of the East. I shudder now when I recall my excitement.
• • • I arrived at Antioch in the last week of July, on a hot humid day. Just outside the city I encountered a large crowd of men and women. Naturally, I thought they had come to welcome me, and I was about to make them a speech of thanks. But they ignored me, calling out strange words, while waving branches in the air. I looked about for my uncle Julian, but there was no official in sight, only this mob which kept singing rhythmically that “a new star had risen in the east”. I’m afraid that I took this to be a reference to myself. One gets used to all sorts of hyperbole. But when I tried to speak to them, they ignored me, their eyes on heaven. At the North Gate the praetorian prefect, Salutius Secundus, my uncle and the senate welcomed me officially. The instant the formal exchanges were finished, I asked, “What is this crowd?”
My uncle was apologetic. Of all days to come to Antioch, I had arrived on that of the festival which commemorates the death of Adonis, the lover of Aphrodite. Adonis is one of the principal gods of Syria, and Maximus and I should have known that this was the day sacred to him. But the mistake was made and there was nothing to be done about it. So I made my entrance into Antioch amid cries and groans and funereal keening, quite spoiling my first impression of the city which, after all, is a beautiful.
place inhabited by scum. No, that is not fair. They have their ways and I have mine. I am dog to their cat.
The North Gate is a massive affair made of Egyptian granite. Past the gate, one’s first view of the city is dazzling, for the main street is two miles long and lined with double porticoes built in the reign of Tiberius. Nowhere else in the world can you walk beneath a portico for two miles. The street itself is paved with granite and so laid out that it always gets a breeze from the sea, twenty miles away. Always a breeze… except on this day. The air was stifling. The sun oppressive. Sweat streaming from beneath my helmet, I rode grimly towards the forum, while the people remained within their shady porticoes, occasionally moaning that Adonis was dead.
As I rode, I looked about me curiously. To the left is Mount Silpius, which rises abruptly from the plain. Most of the city is contained between the Orontes River on the west and Silpius on the east and south. The finest villas are on the mountain’s slopes, where there is morning shade, luxurious gardens, and a fine view of the sea. One of the Seleucid kings, during a year of plague, carved a colossal head in the rock just above the city. It is called the Charonion and it broods over the city like some evil spirit.
One sees it from almost every quarter. The natives admire it. I don’t, for it represents to me Antioch.
The forum of Tiberius contains a large statue of that emperor as well as an elaborate marble and mosaic nymphaeum built over a spring whose waters Alexander claimed were sweeter than his mother’s milk. I drank from it and found the water was good, but then I was extremely thirsty, as Alexander no
doubt had been. I cannot recall the taste of my mother’s milk, but since Alexander’s mother was bitter in all things, no doubt her milk was, too.
Then, accompanied by city officials, I entered the main square of the island in the river where, just opposite the impressive faqade of the imperial palace, stands a brand-new charnel house, begun by Constantine and finished by Constantius. It is octagonal in shape and capped with a gilded dome. The building is known as the Golden House and I must confess that it is a most beautiful example of modern architecture. Even I like it, and I am no modernist. In front of the charnel house stood Bishop Meletius and his fellow priests. We greeted one another politely. Then I entered the palace, most of which was built by Diocletian, who invariably reproduced the same building wherever he was: a rectangle based on a military camp. But in recent years my family has added so much to the old palace that the original austere design has been completely obscured by new buildings and elaborate gardens.
Within the palace compound there are baths, chapels, pavilions and, best of all, an oval riding track surrounded by evergreens, a great convenience for me.
I was greeted by the palace chamberlain, an ancient eunuch who was terrified that I would do to him what I had done to the eunuchs in Constantinople. But I put his mind at rest. All that I demanded, I said, was decent behaviour. If I was well served, I would make no changes. Needless to say, I was looked after superbly, an improvement over my last weeks in Constantinople when my bed was often not made and dinner was never on time. There is something to be said for being comfortable, at least when one is not in the field.
I chose an apartment for myself high above the river, with a roofed terrace where I could sit or stroll in the open air, and look across the western plain to the sea. Here I spent most of my time. During the day, I received visitors and worked; in the evening, I was joined by friends. Close to the palace is the Hippodrome, one of the largest in the East. Yes, I did my duty. I attended the games when I had to, though I never stayed for more than six races. There was much ceremonial. I received the senate. I listened to testimonials. I attended the theatre. I made graceful speeches, though Priscus claims that no matter how secular the occasion, soonor or later I get on to the subject of religion! I reviewed the troops who were already there, and made plans for the reception of the legions which had not yet arrived. To the horror of Count Felix, I remitted one fifth of all tax arrears in Syria, on the reasonable ground that since we did not stand much chance of getting these revenues anyway, why not do the popular thing?
And I was most popular-for about three months.
• • • In August during a meeting of the Sacred Consistory I received word that Sapor had sent me a messenger with an important letter. I turned to Ormisda who happened to be attending the Consistory that day. “Will he want peace or war?”
“My brother always wants both. Peace for himself. War for you. When you are disarmed, he will arm.
When you are armed, he will… write you letters.”
The messenger was brought before the Consistory. He was not a Persian but a well-to-do Syrian merchant who had business dealings with Persia. He had just come from Ctesiphon. He knew nothing of politics. He had been asked to deliver a letter. That was all. But a Persian had accompanied him, in order to take my answer back to the Great King. I asked for the Persian to be brought to us. He turned out to be a tall gaunt nobleman, with a face as composed as statuary. Only once did he betray emotion: when Ormisda addressed him in his native tongue. Startled, he answered. Then when he realized who Ormisda was, his mouth set. He was silent. I asked Ormisda what he had said to him. “I inquired about his father. I know his family,” said Ormisda mildly. “He seems not to admire you. Perhaps we can change that.” I gave Ormisda the letter and he read it rapidly in the soft sibilant Persian tongue. Then he translated. Briefly, Sapor wished to send me an embassy. Nothing more; but the implication was plain.
“He wants peace, Augustus,” said Ormisda. “He is afraid.” He handed me the letter. I let it drop to the floor, an affront to a fellow sovereign. I turned to Ormisda.
“Tell the Persian that there is no need for Sapor to send us an embassy, since he will see me soon enough at Ctesiphon.”
The war was now officially resumed.
• • • At Antioch I dictated ten, even twenty, hours at a stretch, until my voice gave out; then I would whisper as best I could. Still there was not enough time to do what I had to do. The reaction to the two February edicts has not been good. The Galileans in Caesarea set fire to the local temple of Fortune. I fined the city and changed its name back to Mazaca; it does not deserve the title of Caesarea. I received private information from Alexandria that my enemy, Bishop Athanasius, has not left the city, though I had expressly banished him from Egypt. Instead he is living hidden in the house of an extremely rich and beautiful Greek woman who, my informant suggests, is his mistress. If this is so, we have a splendid weapon to use against him, since much of his authority derives from the so-called holiness of his life. I have given orders that he be kept under surviellance until the right moment comes for us to expose his venery. When Athanasius was told I had exiled him, he is supposed to have said, “It is a little cloud that will soon pass.” He is remarkably confident.
I also ordered the Seraphion at Alexandria rebuilt, and I restored to it the ancient Nilometer which is used to record the levels of the Nile. The Galileans had moved the Nilometer to one of their own buildings. I moved it back. During this time I strengthened the Antioch senate by adding to it (despite their piteous protests) two hundred of the richest men of the city.
In September, with Maximinus’s help, I composed the most important edict of my reign so far: concerning education. I have always felt that much of the sucess of the Galilieans have had was due to their mastery of Hellenic writing and argument. Skilled in our religion, they turn our own weapons against us. Now we never ask our priests to teach the writings of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, and not merely because they wrote bad Greek. No. Our priests do not believe in the Nazarene-god.
Therefore why should we offend thos who do believe in him by teaching the works of his apologists?
But Galieans teach our classics in every university in the world. They teach them as models of style and wit, while discarding what they say is untue. This is intolerable. I therefore decreed that no Galilean be allowed to teach the classics. Naturally, the sternness of this law has been resented and I am sorry for the hurt it has caused certain admirable men. But I had no choice. Either the line is clearly drawn between the gods of Homer on the one hand and the followers of the dead Jew on the other, or we shall be quite absorbed in the general atheism of the day. Friends of mine disagree with me; Priscus in particular. But Maximus and I stood firm. At first I made no exceptions to the law, but then I modified itto allow Prohaeresius at Athens and Marius Victorinus at Rome to continue teaching. Both accepted gladly. In Constantinople my old teacher Ecebolius forsook the Galilean madness, and in a most eloquent delaration returned to the true gods.
Priscus: Julain here is misrepresnting everything. Ecebolius we know about. Whatever the reigning emperor worshipped, Ecebolius adored. Now I was not at Athens when the dict took effect, but Prohaeresius told me later that he himself promptly stopped teaching. Later, when his personal exemption arrived, he still refused to teach, declaring that though the edict was highly unjust, if it was to be law, it must at least be consistent. This sounds rather braver than, in fact, it was, for the day the edict was published Prohaeresius paid a visit to his old friend the Hierophant. I don’t know how the Hierophant did it, but he had a genius for guessing the future. He was the only soothsayer who ever
impressed me. By the way, he has just predicted the destruction of all the temples in Greece within this decade. I don’t know whether he means by Theodosius or by the Goths. From the way the tribes are gathering on our borders, I suspect the latter.
Anyway, Prohaeresius had a chat with the Hierophant. Now obviously he could not ask him directly about Julian’s life expectancy. That was treason. But he could ask about one of Julian’s pet projects: the reassessment of all Achaian real estate in order that the land taxes might be lowered. Prohaeresius pretended to be worried about some property his wife owned. Should she sell it now? or wait until the tax went into effect? Sell it now, said the Hierophant (no breathing from a steaming rock or magic spells), the tax cut will not take place. Prohaeresius then knew that Julian’s reign would be short.
Julian was quite right when he said that I opposed the Edict on Education. I thought it cruel, as well as impossible to regulate. At least half the good teachers in the universities are Christian. Who could replace them? But Julian at this period was more and more showing the strain of his huge work. In a way, it was a pity that he was not a Tiberius, or even a Diocletian. Had he turned butcher, he might have got his way. Though the Christians declare that their blood is semen, an emperor whose sole intent is their destruction might succeed through violence, especially if he were at the same time creating an attractive alternative religion. But Julian had made up his mind that he would be a true philosopher. He would win through argument and example. That was his mistake. On,e has only to examine what the Christians believe to realize that reason is not their strong point. Only the knife might have converted them to Julian’s beliefs. But, good man that he was, his blade was sheathed.
Despite Julian’s resolve to be serene, the continual bad news from the provinces affected him. He grew irritable and began to retaliate. The Edict on Education was, he thought, a terminal blow. If he had lived, it might have worked, though I doubt it. At heart he was too mild to have made it stick. In all of this he was constantly egged on by Maximus, who was at his most insufferable those months in Antioch.
Libanius: For once Priscus and I are in complete agreement. Maximus was neither Sophist nor philosopher, neither lawyer nor teacher. He was a magician. Now I have never not believed in magic (after all, there is so much that is familiar which we cannot comprehend), but the magic of Maximus was obvious fakery and the influence he exerted over Julian was deplorable.
Julian Augustus
There was one amusing sequel to the Edict on Education… the only one, as far as I was concerned.
Two literary hacks, a father and son named Apollinaris, immediately rewrote the testaments of the Galilean and the old book of the Jews as Greek tragedies and plays! In this way they hoped to get around the edict and be able to teach classic Greek. I read several of these monstrous works and I must say, crude as they were, they read rather better than the originals. The new testament they rewrote as a series of Socratic dialogues, imitating Plato (but in anapaests!), while the old book of the Jews was compressed into twenty-four chapters from Alpha to Omega, rendered in deadly dactyl. The works of the Apollinarises were sent me for comment by a very nervous bishop at Caesarea… I mean Mazaca. I sent him back a letter of one sentence: “I read; I understood; I condemn.”
Just before I left Antioch I got a reply to this letter from my old friend Basil (I have several times asked him to court but he will not come). Basil’s letter was also one sentence: “You have read but you have not understood, for if you had understood you would not have condemned.” No one can accuse Basil of time-serving!
I shall not describe at any length the people of Antioch. Their bad character is too well known. They are quarrelsome, effeminate and frivolous; they are devotees of horse races, gambling and pederasty. The
city is of course beautiful and well favoured by climate and geography. There is a large Syrian population which lives in its own quarter down by the river, just opposite the island. To visit that quarter is like going to Persia, so Oriental are the people in costume and appearance. There is also a considerable Jewish population in the south section of the city and along the road to Daphne; the Jews are mostly farmers who received land as a reward for military service. I shall have more to say about them later.
During my first “popular” weeks, I made all the usual appearances. I presided at the Hippodrome, and was laughed at for my beard. But the laugh was good-natured. I also attended the theatre which is built into the side of Mount Silpius, following a natural curve in the hill. The performance was Aeschylus so I did not feel my time wasted. Generally, I am required to attend comedies.
Since most of the emperors have been rather light-minded, theatre managers tend to save their most idiotic farces for imperial patrons. Constantine loved Menander. Constantius probably liked farce though no one knows since it was his policy never to laugh or smile in public. But I suspect that the fast-spoken old Greek of the comedies with its many puns and plays on words probably bewildered him.
My uncle Julian, as Count of the East, was at least able to spare me comedies. I enjoyed the Aeschylus very much. It was his Prometheus.
A good part of my time was passed in the law courts. There was the usual log-jam of cases, aggravated by my presence. When litigants know that an emperor is coming to their city, they all try to get him for judge, believing that he is impartial (rightfully) and tending to leniency because he wishes to curry fayour with the mob (in my case, wrongfully).
Though emperors tend to be more merciful than local magistrates, a few lawyers inevitably press their luck too hard and at one time or another we all make some angry judgment we later wish we hadn’t. Aware of this tendency in myself, I instructed the city prefect to stop me whenever he thought I was becoming too emotional or irrelevant. After he overcame his first shyness, he was very useful to me, and kept my prow to the course, as the saying goes.
As a matter of private curiosity, I did ask each litigant what his religion was, and I believe most of them answered honestly. Quite a few admitted to being Galilean when it would have helped their case (so it was believed) to lie to me. But since it was soon known that I never allowed my own religious preferences to affect my judgment, many of those who appeared before me declared themselves Galileans in the most passionate way, demanding I persecute those not of their persuasion.
In Antioch the Galileans are divided between blind followers of Arius and semi-blind followers; they quarrel incessantly. There are of course good Hellenists in the city, but they are ineffective. Potentially there are many who agree with us, but we make no headway, for the Antiocheries cannot be bothered with serious religion. They like the Nazarene because he “forgives” their sins and crimes with a splash of water… even though there is no record of this water having cured even a wart! One interesting paradox I mentioned to Bishop Meletius. We met only twice; once cautiously, once angrily. On the first and cautious occasion, Meletius told me that the city was devoutly Galilean not only because Paul of Tarsus himself had converted so many of the people but also because it was at Antioch that the presumptuous word
“Christian” was first used to describe the Galileans.
“Then why, Bishop, if your people are so devoted to the Nazarene, does the entire city celebrate the death of Adonis? one of our gods?”
Meletius shrugged. “Old customs are hard to break.”
“So is an ancient faith.”
“They regard it merely as a festival.”
“Yet they break the law the Nazarene preaches: Thou shalt have no other god but me.”
“Augustus, we do not condone what they do.”
“I cannot believe it is possible for a Galilean to worship both Adonis and the dead man you call god.”
“One day we hope to persuade them to forsake all impious festivals.”
“Unless of course I have succeeded in persuading them to worship the One God.”
“The many gods of paganism?”
“Each is an aspect of the One.”
“Ours is the One.”
“But isn’t it written in the book of the Jews—which you believe to be holy because the Nazarene thought it holy…”
“It is holy, Augustus.”
“… written that the most high god of the Jews was a jealous
“It is written and so he is.”
“But was he not also by his own definition the god only of the Jews?”
“He is all embracing…”
“No, Bishop. He was the particular god of the Jews, as Athena was the goddess of Athens. He did not claim to be the One God, only a particular and jealous god, limited to one unimportant tribe. Well, if he is limited then he cannot, by definition, be the One God, who, you will agree with me, can have no limitation, since he is in everything and all things comprise him.”
I was particularly vehement at this period, for I was doing research for my book Against the Galileans, in which, following Porphyry, I make a considerable case against the atheists. The bishops of course tend to dismiss the many contradictions in their holy books as signs of a divine mystery rather than plain proof that theirs is a man-made religion, suitable for slaves and uneducated women.
Right to the end of my stay in Antioch I was popular in the law courts, if nowhere else. The people often burst into applause at my decisions. Now I realize that I am in some ways very vain. I enjoy applause. Of course most men are like this, excepting perhaps the greatest of philosophers. But I think I am capable of discerning true admiration from false. The people of Antioch like making a noise, and they are guileful flatterers. One day I decided to let them know that I was on to them. After I had given a lengthy judgment on a peculiarly difficult case, the courtroom burst into frantic applause, and there were many cries of “Perfect justice!”
To which I answered, “I ought to be overjoyed at your praise for my good judgment. But I am not.
For I know-sadly—that though you can praise me for being right, you have not the power to blame me for being wrong.”
• • • When I was first in Antioch, I was not able to do anything I wanted to do. My time was taken up with administrative tasks, and the settling in of the court. It was not until October that I was able to go to the suburb of Daphne and worship at the temple of Apollo. I had made several attempts to go there but urgent business always kept me in the city. At last all preparations were made. The schedule called for a dawn sacrifice at the temple of Zeus Phillos in the old quarter of Antioch; then, to the amazement of the Antiochenes, I announced that I would walk the five miles to Daphne, like any other pilgrim.
When the day came, I was awakened before dawn. Accompanied by Maximus and Oribasius (who grumbled at the early hour), I crossed the bridge to the Syrian quarter. I was accompanied only by archers, as though I were a simple city magistrate. I had hoped to escape notice, but of course the whole quarter knew that I was to give sacrifice at dawn.
We entered the Syrian quarter, with its crowded narrow streets. Here on the river bank the original Antioch was founded almost seven hundred years ago by a general of Alexander’s. The temple of Zeus
Philios is one of the few remaining from that time. It is small and completely surrounded by a market whose thousand carts beneath awnings make it a colourful, if unholy sight. Luckily, the temple has never been entirely abandoned. Even the Galileans respect it because of its associations with the founding of the city.
As the archers made a path for me through the crowded market, I carefully kept my hands under my cloak; since they had been cleansed according to ritual, I could not touch anything. The market people ignored me. Not even an emperor could disturb the important work of selling.
But at the temple a large mob was gathered. They cheered me gaily. Brown hands reached out to touch me. It is the thing I hate most about my place: hands for ever grasping at one’s clothes. Sometimes it is done merely for the thrill of having touched the purple, but usually the hands belong to those who are diseased and believe that the living body of an emperor is a powerful cure. The result is that emperors are peculiarly prone to contagious diseases. So if the knife does not end our progress in this world, the hand of a sick subject will. Diocletian and Constantius never allowed the common people to come within a dozen feet of them. I may yet imitate them, on hygienic grounds!
The altar in front of the temple was already garlanded and ready. Of the two priests who held the white bull, one looked suspiciously like a butcher. We are short of priests. On the steps of the temple, just back of the altar, the leading Hellenists of the city were gathered, with my uncle Julian at their head.
He looked quite cadaverous and coughed almost continuously, but otherwise, he was in excellent spirits.
“All is ready, Augustus,” he said, joining me at the altar.
The crowd was noisy, good-humoured and perfectly oblivious to the religious significance of what was happening. Be calm, 1 murmured to myself, betray nothing. The archers arranged themselves in a semicircle about the altar, making sure that I would not be touched during the ceremony. Behind us the market continued about its business, as noisy as a senate discussing taxes.
I turned to Maximus and asked him in ritual phrases if he would assist me. He responded that he would. The bull was brought forward. I looked at it with a most professional eye. I suppose I have performed ten thousand sacrifices and there is little I do not know about auguries. Everything is significant, even the way the bull walks as it is led to the altar. This bull was unusually large. He had obviously been drugged, a practice most priests tolerate though purists argue that drugging makes the pre-sacrifice movements meaningless. Yet even drugged, one can tell a good deal. The bull moved unsteadily. One leg was weak. He stumbled. A bad omen.
I took the ritual knife. I said what must be said. Then I cut the bull’s throat in a single clean gesture.
At least that went well. The blood gushed. I was covered with it, and that was also good. Through all of this, the priests made the appropriate gestures and responses and I repeated the formula of offering as I had done so many times before. The mob was now quiet, interested, I suppose, in an ancient ceremony which many of them had never seen before.
When it came time for the augury, my hand hesitated. Some demon tried to prevent me from seizing the bull’s liver. I prayed to Helios. Just as I did, the sun rose behind Mount Silpius. Light streamed on either side of the mountain, though its shadow still fell across the morning city. I plunged my hand into the entrails and withdrew the liver.
The omen was appalling. Parts of the liver were dry with disease. I examined it carefully. In the
“house of war” and in the “house of love” death was the omen. I did not dare look at Maximus. But I knew he had seen what I had seen. Entirely by rote, I continued the ceremony, held the sacrifice aloft to Zeus, studied the entrails with Maximus, repeated the old formulas. Then I went inside to complete the ceremonies.
To my horror the temple was crowded with sightseers; worse, they applauded as I entered. I stopped dead in my tracks at this impiety and said, “This is a temple not a theatre!” I had now made a complete
hash out of the ceremony. If even one word is misplaced in a prayer, the entire ritual must begin again from the beginning. By speaking to the crowd, I had broken the chain that links the Pontifex Maximus with the gods. Cursing under my breath, I gave orders to clear the temple, and to begin again. The second bull—undrugged—tried to bolt just as I raised the knife, again the worst of omens. But at least the liver was normal, and the ceremony was completed satisfactorily. Nevertheless, in the worst of moods, I began my walk to Daphne not in the cool of early morning as I had planned but in the full heat of noon.
Maximus and Oribasius walked beside me. My uncle, pleading illness, was carried beside us in a litter.
The archers cleared a way for us and though crowds occasionally gathered along the route, they did not try to touch me; nor was there much importuning, though as always there was that man who suddenly throws himself at one’s feet and begs for imperial fayour. I don’t know how he manages it, but no matter whether one is in Gaul or Italy or Asia, he always breaks through every guard and lands at one’s feet.
Patiently, I take his name and try to do something for him if he is not, as so many are, merely mad.
Depressed and nervous as I was, the walk to Daphne was a lovely distraction. The road follows more or less the course of the Orontes River. The earth is rich and because there is an abundance of water the gardens along the way are among the most beautiful in the world. In fact, their owners hold an annual competition to see whose garden is the most various and pleasing. This year, despite practically no rainfall, the gardens were as dazzling as ever, watered by underground springs.
There are of course many fine villas along the way, and an unusual number of inns, built originally for the thousands of pilgrims who used to come from all over the world to worship at the temple of Apollo. But now there are few pilgrims and the inns are devoted almost entirely to providing shelter for lovers. Once holy, Daphne is now notorious for the amorousness of its visitors.
Halfway to the suburb, my uncle suggested we stop at an inn kept by a former slave of his. I must say it was an attractive place, set back from the road and hidden from view by a hedge of laurel. We sat outside at a long table beneath a vine trellis heavy with dusty purple grapes whose thick scent attracted humming bees. The innkeeper brought us earthen jugs of fruit juice mixed with honey, and we drank thirstily. It was the first pleasing moment in a bad day. Only my uncle’s health disturbed me. His hands shook as he drank. From time to time he would grimace in pain. Yet he never allowed his body’s discomfort to interfere with his conversation, which was, as always, lucid and courtly.
“You will find the temple in fairly good condition,” he said.
“The old priesthood was disbanded some years ago, but there is still a high priest in residence.
Naturally, he is most excited at your coming.”
Maximus shook his head sadly and tugged at his beard. “When I was here as a boy there were a thousand priests, daily sacrifices, crowded inns…”
I am always amazed at how much Maximus has travelled. There is hardly a holy place in the world he has not visited, from that Paphian rock where Aphrodite came from the sea to the precise place on the bank of the Nile where Isis found the head of Osiris.
“I’m afraid you’ll find Daphne changed,” said my uncle. “But we should be able to get things going again. After all, everyone wants to visit Daphne, if only for the waters and the beauty of the place. It is perfect except for one thing…”
I finished his sentence, a bad habit of mine. I interrupt everyone, including myself. “Except for the charnel house my brother Gallus saw fit to build to contain the bones of… what was that criminal’s name?”
“The late Bishop Babylas, executed by the Emperor Decius.”
My uncle’s hand shook and he spilled fruit juice on his tunic. I pretended not to notice. But Oribasius, who had been carefully dissecting a large honey bee with a fruit knife, reached across the table
and felt my uncle’s wrist. “Drink the waters today,” said Oribasius at last.
“I have not been well,” said my uncle, apologetically, death in his face. I have noticed that the eyes of men who are dying of natural ailments tend to be unnaturally brilliant. They have a kind of straining look as though they want to see everything there is to see before they go. I liked my uncle, and wanted him to live. As for Daphne, I can only say that it is quite as beautiful as one has always heard. The town is set among gardens and springs.
Near by is the famous grove of cypresses planted centuries ago by Seleucus, at the command of Apollo. The trees are now so tall and dense that their branches form a roof against the sun, and one can walk for hours on end in the cool shade. Daphne has always been sacred; first to Hercules, then to Apollo. It was here that Apollo pursued the nymph Daphne. When she appealed to Zeus to save her, Zeus changed her into a laurel tree. I have seen this tree myself. It is incredibly old and gnarled, yet each spring it puts forth new shoots, reminding us that held by magic within its ancient grasp a girl sleeps, always young. One may also visit the grove where Paris was required to judge which of three goddesses was the most beautiful.
I went quickly through the ceremony of welcome in the town square. Then instead of going straight to the palace, I went sightseeing with Maximus and Oribasius while my uncle went on to the temple of Apollo to prepare for the sacrifice.
I was particularly impressed by the variety of limestone springs. They flow freely in every weather.
Hadrian—yes, he was here, too-built a large reservoir at the Saramanna Spring with a colonnade; here one can sit on a marble seat and enjoy the cool air that spring-water brings with it from the earth below.
I also saw the famous Kastalian Spring which was once an oracle of Apollo. When Hadrian was a private citizen he inquired about his future by dropping a laurel leaf into the water. The leaf returned to him a moment later marked with the single word “Augustus”. When Hadrian eventually became the Augustus, he had the spring sealed with marble on the reasonable ground that others might learn what he had learned and this was not in the best interest of the state. I plan to reopen the spring, if the omens are propitious.
The town prefect tactlessly showed us the basilica which contains the remains of the criminal Babylas.
I was saddened to see quite a long line of sightseers waiting to be admitted. They believe the bones of this dead man have a curative power, yet they will not go near Apollo’s springs! Next to the charnel house there is a large factory manufacturing Galilean curios. Apparently, this business is run at a considerable profit. How superstitious people are! It was late afternoon when we arrived at the temple of Apollo. A large crowd had gathered outside, but none had come to do homage to the god. They were all sightseers.
I went inside. It took my eyes a moment to accustom themselves to the shadowy interior. At last I could make out the marvellous colossus of Apollo. I could also see that no preparations had been made for a sacrifice. Just as I turned to go, two figures hurried towards me from the far end of the temple.
One was my uncle. The other was a stout man carrying a cumbersome sack.
According to my breathless uncle, this was the high priest of Apollo. High priest! He was a local handyman who had been entrusted by the town council to keep the temple swept and to make sure it was not used as a home for the poor, or as a convenience for lovers, or for those with a full bladder.
Lacking any other attendant, he was the god’s priest.
“Naturally, Lord, we have no money. I wasn’t able to get us a proper white bull or even goat… and a goat does just as well, I always say, if it’s not old and stringy. But knowing you’d be here, I brought you this from home. She’s the last I’ve got. Not too tough, I’d say.” With that he removed a furious grey goose from the sack he was holding.
Aware that I was ready to roar, my uncle spoke quickly. “This will do nicely, high priest. For now.
But tomorrow we’ll have a proper ceremony. You must see how many former priests you can find. I’ll take care of all expenses. We can rehearse them in the morning. Then…” He chattered on until I had controlled myself. I thanked the oaf politely for his efforts, said a prayer to the god and departed, the goose unsacrificed.
Fortunately, I found prompt distraction at the palace. The great Libanius had arrived from Antioch.
This was our first meeting and I must admit that I was thrilled. He is a noble looking man, with a grey beard and eyes pale with cataracts. He is going blind, but like the philosopher he is, he makes no complaint. We had a long talk that night, and almost every night that I was in Syria. I was only too pleased to appoint him quaestor, an office which he very much wanted.
Libanius: It is curious how people’s memories err. I never requested the post of quaestor. What I did request—at the insistence of the senate of Antioch—was the right to be able to argue the city’s case before the Sacred Consistory. I had done a good deal of this in the past, trying to justify the deeds—
often misdeeds!—of my fellow citizens. Even before the awful 22 October, I sensed that there would be serious trouble between emperor and city, and since my love for each was as equal as two things can be, I felt that I might be able to keep the peace. My fellow senators agreed. Julian agreed. And I take some credit for saving Antioch from what, under any other emperor, might have been a bloodbath. In any case, Julian made me quaestor on his own initiative. I did not ask for the post, nor for any post. After all, I later turned down the title “praetorian prefect”, a fact the world knows. I have never coveted titles or official honours.
In my dealings with Julian I was precisely the opposite of Maximus. I made no attempt to win favour.
I never once asked for an audience, except when I was acting as spokesman for the city. Julian has not recorded how we met, but I shall, for my behaviour at the beginning permanently set the tone of our personal relationship, doomed to be so short.
When Julian first came to Antioch, I confess that I expected to be sent for immediately. We had corresponded for years. At Nicomedia, he had had my lectures taken down in shorthand. He had based his prose style on my own, and there is no higher compliment than that. But weeks passed and I was not sent for. Later he apologized by saying that he had been much too distraught to see me. I understood of course. Yet I confess I was like a proud father who wanted more than anything else to delight in the success of his gifted son. Naturally, I saw him when he addressed our senate, but we did not meet, though he referred to me in his speech as “principal ornament of the crown of the East”! I was thought to be in high favour after this, but there was still no summons to the palace.
Not until late October did I receive an invitation from Julian, asking me to dine with him that day. I replied that I never lunch because of fragile health, which is true: a heavy meal during the heat of the day invariably brings on headache. He then invited me to join him the following week at Daphne, and I accepted.
As the record plainly shows I did not “run after” him; rather, he ran after me. He mentions the cataracts in my eyes. I had not realized they were so noticeable. In those days I could see fairly well. Now of course I am practically blind.
I was enchanted with Julian, as most men were. He flattered one outrageously, but there was always enough good sense in his flattery to make it more agreeable than not.
Unfortunately, he enjoyed sitting up all night and I don’t; as a result, I was for ever excusing myself just as he was getting a second wind. Even so, we still found time to discuss my work in considerable detail and I was gratified to discover how much of it he had memorized. We also discussed Iamblichos and Plato.
Julian Augustus
I finally made a proper sacrifice to Apollo, offering up a thousand white birds. This occupied most of one day. Then I entered the temple to consult the oracle. I asked certain questions, which I may not record, but the priestess would not answer. She was silent for nearly an hour; then she spoke with the god’s voice:
“Bones and carrion. I cannot be heard. There is blood in the sacred spring.” That was all. That was enough. I knew what had to be done.
As I left the temple, there was a crowd gathered in front of it. They applauded me. I paused and looked across the way to the charnel house, the cause of the pollution. I turned to my uncle. “Tomorrow I want the bones of that Galilean, Babylas, removed.”
“Babylas, removed?” My uncle looked distressed. “But this is one of their most famous shrines.
People come from all over Asia to touch the remains of Saint… of the bishop.”
“They can still touch them all they like. But not here. Not in Daphne. This place is sacred to Apollo.”
“There will be trouble, Augustus.”
“There will be even more trouble if Apollo is not obeyed.”
Glumly, my uncle bowed, and crossed to the charnel house across the square.
As I was about to get into my litter, I noticed a group of Jewish eiders standing on the edge of the crowd. I signalled for them to come forward. One proved to be a priest. He was an old man, and I teased him. “Why didn’t you join me in the sacrifice?”
“Augustus knows we may not.” The priest was stiff; his companions were nervous. In the past emperors had often slaughtered Jews for not observing the rituals of state.
“But surely you prefer Apollo to… that!” I pointed to the charnel house across the square.
The old man smiled. “Augustus must know that this is one of the few choices we have never been forced to make.”
“But we have at least a common enemy,” I said, quite aware that since my voice could be heard by those near by, every word I said would soon be repeated from the Tigris to the Thames. The old man did not answer, but he smiled again. I continued, “You should at least make occasional sacrifice. After all, your High God is a true god.”
“We may sacrifice in only one place, Augustus. At the temple in Jerusalem.”
“But that temple has been destroyed.”
“So we no longer make sacrifice.”
“But if the temple were rebuilt?”
“Then we should offer up thanksgiving to our God.”
I got into my litter, a plan half-made. “Come see me at Antioch.”
The Nazarene predicted that the temple of the Jews would be for ever destroyed; after his death the temple was burned by Titus. If I rebuild it, the Nazarene will be proved a false prophet. With some pleasure, I have given orders that the temple be restored Also, what better allies can one have against the Gallleans than the Jews, who must contemplate with daily horror the perversic of their holy book by the followers of the man.god?
Priscus: Julian does not again refer to this matter, but when he gave orders for the Jewish temple to be rebuilt, there was consternation among the Christians. They hate the Jews, partly because they feel guilty for having stolen their god from them, but mostly because they realize that the Jews know better than
anyone what perfect nonsense the whole Christian mishmash is. Now if the Jewish temple were rebuilt, not only would Jesus be prove a false prophet but the Christians would again have a formidable rival at Jerusalem. Something had to be done. And it was.
I got the true story from my old friend Alypius, who was in charge of the project. He had been vice-prefect in Britain when Julian was Caesar. Looking for a new assignment, Alypius can to Antioch and we saw a good deal of one another, for he was much given to the pleasures of the flesh as am—as was—I.
One night we visited every brothel in Singon Street. But I shall spare you the idle boasting of an old man.
Libanius: For this small favour, I thank heaven.
Priscus: Julian sent Alypius to Jerusalem to rebuild the temple. I had carte blanche. With the help of the governor, they started work, to the delight of the local Jews, who agreed to raise the necessary money. Then the famous “miracle” happened. One morning balls of flame flared among the stones and a sudden tier, north wind caused them to roll about, terrifying the workmen who fled. That was the end of that. Alypius later discovered that the Galileans had placed buckets of naphtha in the ruins,. arranged that if one was lit all the others would catch fire, too, giving the impression of fire-demons scurrying about.
The north wind was not planned; it is of course possible that Jesus sent the wind to ensure his reputation as a prophet, but think coincidence is more likely. Plans were made to start rebuild ing in the spring, but by then it was too late.
Julian Augustus
The next day was 22 October. At dawn, a thousand Galileans assembled to remove the pieces of the late Babylas from the shrine Gallus had built for them. It was all carefully planned. I know because on that same day I too returned to the city and saw the procession.
The Galileans—men and women—wore mourning as they reverently escorted the stone casket which contained the criminal’s remains. None looked at me. All eyes were cast down. But they sang ominous dirges for my benefit, particularly, “Damned are they who worship graven images, who preen themselves in idols.”
When I heard this, I spurred my horse and cantered past them, followed by my retinue. We kicked up a gratifying amount of dust, which somewhat inhibited the singers. In good spirits I arrived at Antioch.
The next day I learned what had happened in the night. My uncle was delegated to inform me.
Everyone else was too frightened.
“Augustus…” My uncle’s voice cracked with nervousness. I motioned for him to sit, but he stood, trembling. I put down the letter I had been reading. “You should see Oribasius, Uncle, you look quite ill.”
“The temple of Apollo…”
“He’s got a herb the Persians use. He says the fever breaks overnight.”
“… was burned.”
I stopped. Like so many who talk too much, I have learned how to take in what others are saying even when my own voice is overriding them. “Burned? The Galileans?”
My uncle gestured wretchedly. “No one knows. It started just before midnight. The whole thing’s burned, gone.”
“The statue of Apollo?”
“Destroyed. They claim it was a miracle.”
I controlled myself. I have found that one’s rage (which in little things is apt to make one quite senseless) at great moments sharpens the senses. “Send me their bishop,” I said evenly. My uncle withdrew.
I sat a long time looking out across the plain. The sun hung in the west, red as blood. I allowed myself a vision of perfect tyranny. I saw blood in the streets of Antioch, blood splattered on walls, arcades, basilicas. I would kill and kill and kill! Ah, how I revelled in this vision! But the madness passed, and I remembered that I had weapons other than the sword.
Bishop Meletius is an elegant ironist, in the Alexandrian manner. For a Galilean prelate his Greek is unusually accomplished and he has a gift for rhetoric. But I gave him no opportunity to employ it. The instant he started to speak, I struck the table before me with my open hand. The sound was like a thunderbolt. I had learned this trick from an Etruscan priest, who not only showed me how to make a terrifying sound with one’s cupped hand but also how to splinter solid wood with one’s bare fingers held rigid. I learned the first trick but have so far lacked the courage to attempt the second, though it was most impressive when the Etruscan did it and not in the least magic. Meletius gasped with alarm.
“You have burned one of the holiest temples in the world.”
“Augustus, believe me, we did not…”
“Don’t mock me! It is not coincidence that on the day the remains of your criminal predecessor were taken from Daphne to Antioch, our temple which has stood seven centuries was burned.”
“Augustus, I knew nothing of it.”
“Good! We are making progress. First, it was ‘we’. Now it is ‘I’. Excellent. I believe you. If I did not, I would this day provide a brand-new set of bones for your followers to worship.” His face twitched uncontrollably. He has a tic of some sort. He tried to speak but no sound came. I knew then what it was the tyrants felt when they were in my place. Fury is indeed splendid and exhilarating, if dangerous to the soul.
“Tomorrow you are to deliver the guilty ones to the praetorian prefect. They will be given a fair trial.
The see of Antioch will of course pay for the rebuilding of the temple. Meanwhile, since you Galileans have made it impossible for us to worship in our temple, we shall make it impossible for you to worship in yours. From this moment, your cathedral is shut. No services may be held. What treasures you have, we confiscate to defray the costs of restoring what you have burned.”
I rose. “Bishop, I did not want this war between us. I have said it and I have meant it: all forms of worship will be tolerated by me. We ask for nothing but what was ours. We take nothing that is lawfully yours. But remember, priest, when you strike at me, you strike not only at earthly power -which is terrible enoughbut at the true gods. And even if you think them not the true, even if you are bitterly atheist, by your behaviour you disobey the teachings of your own Nazarene, whom you pretend to follow. You are hypocrites! You are cruel! You are ravenous! You are beasts!”
I had not meant to say so much, as usual. But I was not displeased that I had spoken out. Trembling and speechless, the Bishop departed. I dare say he will one day publish a long vitriolic sermon, claiming that he had spoken it to my face. Galileans take pride in acts of defiance, especially if the enemy is an emperor. But their reckless denunciations are almost always the work of a later date and often as not composed by another hand.
I sent for Salutius and ordered him to shut down the Golden House. He already had theories about the burning and was confident that in a few days he would be able to arrest the ringleaders. He thought that Meletius was ignorant of the whole affair. I was not so certain; we shall probably never know.
A week later, there were a number of arrests. The man responsible for the burning was a young
zealot named Theodore, who had been a presbyter in the charnel house at Daphne. While he was tortured, he sang that same hymn the Galileans sang to me on the road to Antioch. Though he did not confess, he was clearly guilty. Salutius then held a board of inquiry, and to everyone’s astonishment the so-called priest of Apollo (the one who had brought me the goose for sacrifice) swore by all the gods that the fire was indeed an accident and that the Galileans were not responsible. As watchman of the temple he has always been in their pay, but because he was known to Antioch as “priest of Apollo”, his testimony managed to obscure the issue.
So far I have not had the heart to go back to Daphne. After all I was one of the last to see that beautiful temple as it was. I don’t think I could bear the sight of burned walls and scorched columns, roofed only by sky. Meanwhile the Golden House in Antioch will remain closed until our temple is rebuilt. There is much complaint. Good.