Priscus: The next morning Julian gave the order to march west to the Tigris. We were in a dry desolate country of sand and stone. Our slow passage made clouds of white choking dust as we rode towards a series of low hills where waiting Persians watched us, like so many scorpions among the rocks.
I was with Julian in the vanguard. He wore no armour. His servant had not yet repaired the leather straps. “Just as well,” he said. Like all of us, he was soaked with sweat, even at dawn. Flies clung to our lips and eyes. Most of us suffered from dysentery. Yet despite the heat and the discomfort, Julian was in excellent spirits. For one thing, he had finally interpreted the dream to his own liking. “The Genius of Rome deserted me. There’s no denying that. But he left by the tent door, which was to the west. That means this campaign is finished, and we must return home to the west.”
“But you said the face was grieving.”
“So is mine when I think of what we might have done here. Even so…” As we talked, messengers came to him at regular intervals. Persians sighted in the valley ahead. Skirmishing on the left flank.
Count Victor fears an attack.
“No attack,” said Julian. “They won’t meet us again in battle. They will harass us, but nothing more.”
He gave rapid orders. The left flank to be reinforced. The Saracens to go to the rear. Count Victor to be soothed. Suddenly a courier arrived from Arintheus: Persian cavalry was attacking the rear-guard. Julian promptly turned his horse about and rode to the rear, followed by Callistus. Some thirty minutes after Julian left us, the van was attacked by Persian archers hidden in the cliffs to the right of the trail. Nevitta called for battle formation. I quickly joined my fellow noncombatants at the centre.
Safe among the baggage, I found Maximus calmly combing his beard, unaware we were being attacked. When I told him what was happening, he was not in the least alarmed. “No more set battles,”
he said, echoing Julian. “Only guerrilla warfare. Nothing to fear.”
But Anatolius was roused by this information. “I must join the Tertiaci. They count on me.” Then the absurd creature was off, the plump little body kept astride his horse only by the weight of armour. It should be noted that if one is at the centre of an army whose vanguard is ten miles from its rear-guard, a considerable battle can take place and one not know it. Huddled among the wagons, Maximus and I might just as well have been travelling from Athens to Sirmium as in the midst of a Persian war.
Now this is what happened to Julian. Halfway to the rear, he was stopped by a second courier, who told him that the vanguard was also under attack. Julian started back. He had gone perhaps a mile when the Persians attacked our centre. Elephants, cavalrymen, archers swept down from the hills so suddenly that the left flank momentarily gave way. Julian rushed into this action, his only armour a shield. He rallied the troops. They struck back at the Persians. With swords and axes they hacked the trunks and legs of the elephants.
The Persians retreated. Julian rode after them, waving to the household troops to follow him.
Suddenly he and Callistus were caught up in a confused melée of retreating Persians. For some minutes both men were lost to view. Finally the last of the Persians fled and Julian was again visible. He rejoined the household troops, who cheered him, relieved that he was safe. Not until he had come quite close did they notice the spear that had penetrated his side.
“It is not much,” said Julian. But when he tried to draw the spear, he gave a cry, for the shaft was razor-sharp and cut his fingers. I am told that he sat a long moment staring straight ahead. Then
suddenly he hurled his own blood straight at the sun. “It is not much,” he said again, and pitched headlong to the ground. Julian was carried in a litter to his tent. At his own insistence, he was completely covered by a cavalryman’s cloak so that no one might know the Emperor had fallen.
When I saw the litter approaching the tent, I thought stupidly: Someone has killed a deer and they’re bringing it for our supper. When I realized that it was Julian in the litter, I felt as if I had been struck very hard in the chest. I looked at Maximus. He too was stunned. Together we followed the litter into the tent. Julian was now conscious.
“There is a lesson in this,” he murmured, while Maximus leaned over him, as though to hear the words of an oracle.
“Yes, Julian.” Maximus whispered prayerfully.
“Always, in war-no matter what-wear armour.” Julian smiled weakly at us. Then he turned to the frightened Callistus.
“Are the straps fixed yet?”
“Yes, Lord. Yes.” Callistus began to sob.
The surgeons meanwhile had cut away Julian’s tunic. The head of the spear had entered just below the rib cage, penetrating the lower lobe of the liver. There was almost no blood on the white skin. Julian glanced down at his wound with an air of distaste, like a sculptor who detects a flaw in the figure he is shaping. “Only my hand gives me pain,” he said. Then he turned to Salutius who had joined us. “How is the battle?”
“We are turning them back.”
“Good. But even so, I’d better show myself. The men must see that I’m still alive.” Though the surgeons tried to restrain him, he sat up. “It’s all right. I feel no pain. The wound’s not deep. Callistus, my armour.” He turned to the surgeons. “If you can’t draw the spear, at least cut it short so I can hide it under my cloak.”
He swung his legs over the bed; blood gushed from the wound; he fainted. I nearly did, too. Swiftly, the surgeons worked to stanch the flow.
It was Salutius who asked the surgeons, “Will he die?”
“Yes, Prefect, he will die, very soon.” We looked at one another like idiots, amazed, unbelieving.
Nevitta appeared at the tent’s opening. “Emperor!” he shouted to the pale unconscious figure on the lion bed.
Salutius shook his head and put his fingers to his lips. With a howl like an animal in pain, Nevitta fled the tent. Salutius followed him. That day the Gauls and Franks, the Celts and Germans slaughtered half the Persian army to avenge their Emperor. The fighting did not end until nightfall. But I saw none of it. With Maximus, I sat in that stifling tent and watched Julian die. He was conscious most of the time. He did not become delirious. His mind never wandered. He suffered little pain. For a long time he pretended that all he had suffered was a flesh wound.
“But how?” I asked. The javelin in his side looked absurd, like a long pin struck in a child’s doll.
“I don’t know. How?” Julian turned to Callistus, who sat on the ground like a terrified dog, close to the armour stand. “Did you see how it happened?”
“No, Lord. I was behind you. The Persians were all around us. I lost sight of you. Not until we were free of them did I see what had happened.”
“At the time I hardly felt it; a light blow, as if I’d been struck by a fist.” Julian motioned to the deaf-mute boy to give him water. But at the surgeons’ request, he did not swallow.
News of the battle was brought us regularly. When Julian learned that the Persian generals Merena and Nahodares were dead, he was delighted. “They were the best of Sapor’s officers. This is the last
battle. I’m sure of it
I confess that for once I was grateful for Maximus’s logorrhoea. There were no silences that day as he told us endless anecdotes of the various gods he had spoken to. Apparently, all Olympus delighted in his company.
At sundown, the bleeding started again. When it was finally stopped, Julian’s face was ashy beneath sunburned skin. “Will you be able to draw the spear?” he asked the surgeons.
“No, Lord.” That was the death sentence, and Julian knew it. He nodded and shut his eyes. He seemed to sleep. I sweated nervously. Maximus drew designs on the sandy floor. From far off, the sound of battle grew fainter. Just as Callistus was lighting the lamps, Salutius and Nevitta entered the tent.
Julian opened his eyes. “How goes it?” His voice was low but firm.
Salutius placed an ornate bronze helmet at the edge of Julian’s cot. “This belonged to General Merena. The Persian army is defeated. So far we have counted fifty of their greatest lords among the dead.”
“We won’t see that army soon again,” said Nevitta.
“You fought well.” Julian touched the Persian general’s helmet with his good hand. “This war is over.”
“But we nearly lost Salutius.” Nevitta attempted heartiness.
“They had him surrounded. Because of the purple cloak, they thought he was you. So he had to fight just like a Frank to get away. Never thought such an old man could have so much energy.”
Julian smiled dimly. “The old man won’t be able to walk tomorrow, from stiffness.”
“He can hardly move now.” Salutius kept up the badinage. Julian gave a sudden quick gasp. He gripped his sides as though the chest were about to burst. Sweat glistened on his body. The muscles of his stomach contracted in pain.
“Helios,” he muttered. Then he added, “Where are we? What is this place called?”
It was Maximus who answered, “Phrygia.” And dully Julian said, “Then the thing is done.”
Incidentally, I have always wanted to know whether or not that patch of desert was indeed called Phrygia. Knowing Maximus, I suspect him of lying; after all, his reputation as a prophet was at stake. But true or false, it is now a matter of historic record that the Emperor Julian was struck down in Phrygia, as foretold by Maximus and Sosipatra.
Julian turned to the surgeons. “Will I die soon?”
“Lord, we cannot say. The liver is pierced. A few hours…”
Callistus began to weep again. Nevitta clenched and unclenched his huge hands as though ready to break to bits bony death himself. Salutius sat limply on a stool, weak from the long day’s battle
“So I have seen the sun -living -for the last time.” Julian said this in a matter-of-fact voice. “I should have made sacrifice. Now of course I am the sacrifice.”
“Augustus.” Salutius was urgent. “You must determine the succession. Who is to be our emperor when the gods take you back?”
Julian was silent. For a moment it seemed as if he had not heard. Then he said, “I must add certain things to my will, personal bequests. Send for Anatolius.”
It was Salutius who said, “He is happy, Lord.” The classic expression which means that a man has died honourably in battle. I was particularly upset by this.
Julian was startled. “Anatolius dead?” Tears came to his eyes. Then he laughed. “Here I am a dying man mourning the dead! That, Priscus, should appeal to your sense of the incongruous.” He became businesslike. “There is a will at Constantinople, Salutius, you know where it is. See that it is honoured.
Nevitta, summon the generals. Maximus, my friends. I am ready to say good-bye.” He grinned and
looked suddenly like a schoolboy again. “You know, most of our emperors died too swiftly to be able to prepare a final speech. While the ones who were allowed sufficient time proved disappointing. Vespasian made a bad ioke. ‘Dear me,’ he said, ‘I seem to be turning into a god.’ Augustus rambled. Hadrian discussed astronomy. None took advantage of the occasion. Well, I mean to be an exception.”
Julian nodded to Callistus, who brought him a small chest from which he withdrew a scroll. “As always, the gods have been kind to me. I shall die unique: the first emperor to deliver himself of a well-written (if I say so myself) farewell.” He smiled at me. “Yes, I wrote my last words in Antioch, just in case. So no matter what happens to my reputation, I shall always be remembered for this departure.” He spoke with such a delicate self-mockery that even Salutius smiled and said, “You have surpassed Marcus Aurelius.”
“Thank you,” said Julian. Then he shut his eyes and waited. In a matter of minutes the tent was crowded with friends, priests, generals. Almost as if by design, the Asiatic generals stood at one side of the bed, while the Europeans were ranged at the other.
When all were present, Julian motioned for the surgeon to prop him up, a physical effort which caused him some pain. Breathing hard, he ordered Callistus to light more lamps, remarking, again to me,
“At the end, Priscus, we can be extravagant.” I of course could think of nothing to say.
Julian opened the scroll. “Friends,” he began. He looked about him. Victor did not stir when Julian’s gaze fell on him. “Friends,” he repeated. Then he read rapidly, as though afraid he might not live long enough to get to the end. “Most opportunely do I leave this life which I am pleased to return to Creation, at her demand, like an honourable man who pays his debts when they come due. Nor am I—as some might think…” he paused once more and looked about the tent at the faces of his generals, curiously shifting and grotesque in the uneven lamplight… “sad”—he stressed the word oddly—“at going.”
He returned to the text. “For I have learned from philosophy that the soul is happier than the body; therefore, when a better condition is severed from a worse, one should rejoice, not grieve. Nor should we forget that the gods deliberately give death to the greatest of men as the ultimate reward. I am confident that this gift was given me so that I might not yield to certain difficulties, nor ever suffer the humiliation of defeat. After all, sorrow can only overwhelm weakness; it flees before strength. I regret nothing I have ever done. I am not tormented by the memory of any great misdeed. Both before and after I was raised to the principate, I preserved my own god-given soul and kept it without grievous fault, or so I think. I conducted the business of the state with moderation. I made war—or peace—only after much deliberation, realizing that success and careful planning do not necessarily go hand in hand, since the gods, finally, must determine the outcome. Even so, believing as I did that the purpose of a iust rule is the welfare and security of the people, I was always—as you know inclined to peaceful measures, never indulging in that licence which is the corruption of deeds and of charity.” He stopped. He took several long deep breaths, as though he could not get enough air in his lungs.
I looked about me. All eyes were on Julian. Nevitta and Jovian wept openly; the one from emotion, the other from drink. Victor stood on tiptoe at the edge of the bed, like some predatory bird ready to strike. Of that company, only Maximus was his usual self, muttering spells and crumbling dried herbs on to the nearest lamp, no doubt sending messages ahead to the underworld.
Julian continued, his voice weaker. “I am happy that the state like an imperious parent so often exposed me to danger. I was forced to be strong, to hold my own, to resist the storms of fate, even though I knew what the end would be, for I long ago learned from an oracle that I would die by the sword. For this good death,! thank Helios, since it is the fear of those in my place that we die ignobly by secret plots or, even worse, by some long illness. I am happy that I die in mid-career, victorious, and I am honoured that the gods have found me worthy of so noble a departure from this world. For a man is
weak and cowardly who wants not to die when he ought, or tries to avoid his hour when it comes…”
These last few words were said almost in a whisper. The scroll dropped from his hand. He seemed to have difficulty in concentrating his thoughts.
“There is more,” he said at last. “But I cannot… I am… I will not ramble.” An attempt at a smile failed. Instead a muscle in his cheek began to twitch spasmodically. Yet his next words came out clearly.
“Now as to the choice of an emperor.” Instinctively, the generals moved closer to the bed, the scent of power exciting them much as blood draws wolves to a wounded deer. Even in his pain, Julian understood precisely the nature of the beasts who encircled him; he spoke slowly and carefully. “If I select someone as my heir and you reject him, as you might, I shall have put a worthy man in a fatal position. My successor would not let him live. Also I might, through ignorance”—this time he did manage a faint smile—“pass over the worthiest man of all, and I would not want that stain on my memory, for I am a dutiful child of Rome and I want a good ruler to succeed me. That is why I leave the choice to you. I propose no one.”
There was a long sigh in the room. The generals stirred restlessly. Some were disappointed; others pleased: now their moment might come.
Julian looked at me. “Did I read that well?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Then I have made the departure I intended.” He turned to the generals. “Now let us say good-bye.”
One by one, the generals kissed his hand for the last time. Many wept. But he ordered them not to. “I should weep for you. I am finished with suffering while you, poor devils, are still in the midst of it.”
When the last of the generals had gone, Julian motioned for Maximus and me to sit beside his bed.
“Now we talk,” he said, employing the phrase he always used when he was alone at last with his friends.
Then Julian engaged us in a discussion of the Phaedo. What is the precise nature of the soul? What form does it take? In what way does it return to Serapis? I talked philosophy; Maximus talked mysteries.
Julian preferred Maximus to me at the end and I could not blame him, for I am bleak and Maximus was hopeful. Together they repeated Mithraic passwords to one another and made cryptic references to the Passion of Demeter. Julian derived a good deal of comfort from Maximus. As usual, I was quite unable to express my affection for him; instead, like a village schoolmaster, I quoted Plato. I was never more inadequate.
Shortly before midnight, Julian asked for cold water. Callistus brought it to him. Just as he was about to drink, black, clotted blood suddenly gushed from his side. He gave a sharp cry and clutched the wound as though with his bare hand he might keep the life from leaving. Then he fainted. The surgeons tried to close the wound. But this time it was no use; the haemorrhage when it finally stopped did so of its own accord.
For some minutes Julian lay with eyes shut, hardly breathing. To this day I remember how the hair on his chest was matted with dried blood, like the pelt of some animal newly killed. I remember the sharp contrast between his sun-darkened neck and the marble white of his torso. I remember that foolish sliver of metal stuck in his side, and I remember thinking: such a small thing to end a man’s life and change the history of the world.
At last Julian opened his eyes. “Water,” he whispered. Callistus held up his head while he drank. This time the surgeons allowed him to swallow. When he had drained the cup, he turned to Maximus and me, as though he had just thought of something particularly interesting to tell us.
“Yes, Julian?” Maximus leaned forward eagerly. “Yes? But Julian seemed to have a second thought.
He shook his head.
He closed his eyes. He cleared his throat quite naturally. He died. Callistus, feeling the body in his arms go limp, leapt back from the bed with a cry. The corpse fell heavily on its back. One limp brown
arm dangled over the edge of the bed. The lion-skin covering was now drenched with blood. No one can ever use it again, I thought numbly as the surgeon said, “The Augustus is dead.”
Callistus wept. The deaf-mute moaned like an animal by the bed. Maximus shut his eyes as if in pain.
He did not need to exert his gift for seeing into the future to know that the days of his own greatness were over.
I sent Callistus to fetch Salutius. While we waited, the surgeons drew the spear from Julian’s body. I asked to see it. I was examining it when Salutius arrived. He glanced briefly at the body; then he turned to Callistus, “Tell the staff to assemble immediately.”
Maximus, suddenly, gave a loud but melodious cry and hurried from the tent. Later he told me that he had seen the spirits of Alexander and Julian embracing in the air several feet above the earthen floor of the tent. The sight had ravished him.
After covering the body with a cloak, the surgeons departed, as did the deaf-mute, who was never seen again. Salutius and I were alone in the tent.
I showed him the lance that I was still holding. “This is what killed him,” I said.“Yes. I know.”
“It is a Roman spear,” I said.
“I know that, too.” We looked at one another.
“Who killed him?” I asked. But Salutius did not answer. He pulled back the tent flap. Outside the generals were gathering by the light of a dozen torches guttering in the hot night wind. Resinous smoke stung my eyes. As Salutius was about to join them, I said, “Did Julian know it was a Roman spear?”
Salutius shrugged. “How could he not have known?” He let the tent flap fall after him.
I looked at the figure on the bed. The body was shrouded in purple, except for one brown foot. I adjusted the cloak and inadvertently touched flesh: it was still warm. I shied like a horse who sees a shadow in the road. Then I opened the box from which Julian had taken his deathbed speech. As I had suspected, the memoir and the journal were there. I stole them.
What else? The meeting that night was stormy. Victor and Arintheus wanted an emperor from the East. Nevitta and Dagalaif wanted one from the West. All agreed on Salutius. But he refused. He is the only man I have ever heard of who really meant it when he declared that the principate of this world was not for him.
When Ammianus insisted that Salutius at least agree to lead the army out of Persia, Salutius was equally firm. Under no circumstances would he take command. At a complete impasse, the two factions agreed to meet again the following day.
During the night, Victor took action. Realizing that he himself had no chance of becoming emperor, he decided to create an emperor, one easily managed. His choice was Jovian. In the early hours of 27
June, Victor got the household troops drunk. He then incited them to proclaim their commander Jovian as Augustus. At dawn, the frightened Jovian was led before the assembly by a hundred young officers with drawn swords. The thing was accomplished. Rather than risk bloodshed and civil war, we swore the oath of allegiance to Jovian. Then the new Emperor and his guards made a solemn progress through the army. When the men heard the cry “Jovian Augustus!” they thought at first it was “Julian Augustus”, and so they began to cheer the miraculous recovery. But when they saw the clownish figure of their new lord, red-eyed, nervous, stooped beneath ill-fitting purple like some exotic African bird, the cheers turned to silence.
That same day, I myself buried poor Anatolius. I found him lying at the bottom of a steep ravine.
Until now I have never had the heart to tell anyone that he was not killed by the Persians. He was thrown from his horse and broke his neck. He was a terrible horseman but a delightful companion. I kept his draughtboard, which I lost-naturally—on the trip from Antioch to Athens. Nothing is left to me. Well…
The rest is familiar history. Jovian made a thirty years’ peace with Sapor. He was so eager to get out of Persia and begin a round of parties in Constantinople that he agreed to all of Sapor’s demands. He ceded Persia five provinces, including our cities of Singara and Nisibis! It was a disastrous treaty.
We then proceeded to Antioch. En route, Procopius and Sebastian ioined us. To this day no one knows why Procopius did not join Julian in Persia. He must have given some excuse to Jovian, but it never filtered down to us. Happily, he himself was put to death, some years later, when he tried to seize the East. So there is a rude justice in our affairs, at least in this case.
Seven months later the Emperor Jovian was also dead. The official report said that he died in his sleep from breathing the fumes of a charcoal stove. To this day, many believe that he was poisoned by Victor, but I have it on good authority that he died naturally. In a drunken sleep, he vomited and choked to death, the perfect end for a glutton. Rather surprisingly, Valentinian was declared Emperor, and that was the end of Victor as a political force. Remember how pleased we all were when Valentinian made his brother Valens Augustus for the East? Such a mild young man, we thought. Well, Valens nearly had my head. He did have Maximus’s, and even you had a most difficult time of it. But now the brothers are also dead, and we live on under Valentinian’s son Gratian and his appointee Theodosius, who in turn will die, to be succeeded by… I sometimes feel that the history of the Roman principate is an interminable pageant of sameness. They are so much alike, these energetic men; only Julian was different.
Towards the end of your justly admired funeral oration at Antioch, you suggested that Julian was killed by one of his own men, if only because no Persian ever came forward to collect the reward the Great King had offered the slayer of Julian. Now I was one of the few people who knew for certain that Julian had been killed by a Roman spear, but I said nothing. I had no intention of involving myself in politics. As it was, I had quite enough trouble that year when Maximus and I were arrested for practising magic. I a magician!
Fortunately, I was acquitted. Maximus was not. Even so, the old charlatan did manage to have the last word. During his trial, he swore that he had never used his powers maliciously. He also prophesied that whoever took his life unjustly would himself die so terribly that all trace of him would vanish from the earth. Maximus was then’ put to death by the Emperor Valens, who was promptly killed at the Battle of Adrianople by Goths who hacked the imperial corpse into so many small pieces that no part of him was ever identified. Right to the end, Maximus was lucky in his predictions.
When I was finally released from prison (I wish you luck in your campaign for penal reform), I went straight home to Athens, I locked up Julian’s papers in one of Hippia’s strong-boxes and thought no more about them until this correspondence began.
Lately I have found myself thinking a good deal about Julian’s death. You were right when you hinted that he was killed by one of his own men. But by whom? And how? I have studied the last entries in the diary with particular care. From the beginning Julian knew that there was a plot against his life, and it is fairly plain that he suspected Victor of conspiracy. But was Julian right? And if he was right, how was the murder accomplished?
About ten years ago Julian’s servant Callistus wrote a particularly lachrymose ode on the Emperor’s death. We were all sent copies. I’m afraid I never wrote to thank the author for his kind gift. In fact, Callistus had completely dropped from my memory until I reread the diary and realized that if anyone had known how Julian died, it would be the servant who was with him when he was wounded.
Callistus of course had sworn that he did not see who struck the blow. But at the time there was good reason for him to lie: the Christians would very quickly have put him to death had he implicated any of them. Like so many of us, Callistus chose silence. But might he not be candid now, with all the principals dead?
It took me several weeks to discover that Callistus lives at Philippopolis. I wrote him. He answered.
Last month I went to see him. I shall now give you a full report of what he said. Before you use any of this, I suggest that you yourself write to Callistus for permission. His story is an appalling one, and there is some danger in even knowing it, much less writing about it. I must also insist that under no circumstances are you to involve me in your account. After a tedious trip to Philippopolis in the company of tax collectors and church deacons, I went straight to the house of an old pupil who kindly offered to put me up, a great saving since the local innkeepers are notorious thieves. The only advantage to having been a teacher for what seems now to have been the better part of a thousand years is that no matter where I go, I find former students who let me stay with them. This makes travel possible. I asked my host about Callistus (I myself could remember nothing about him except the sound of his sobbing at Julian’s deathbed). “One never sees your Callistus.” My old student is a snob. “They say he’s quite rich, and there are those who go to his house. I am not one of them.”
“Where did his money come from?”
“Trade concessions. Imperial grants. He is supposed to be quite clever. He was born here, you know.
The son of a slave in the house of a cousin of mine. He returned only a few years ago, shortly after the Emperor Valentinian died. They say he has important friends at court. But I wouldn’t know.”
Callistus is indeed rich, his house far larger and more lavish than that of my former pupil. A Syrian steward of breathtaking elegance led me through two large courtyards to a small shady atrium where Callistus was waiting for me. Here I was greeted most affably by a perfect stranger. I don’t recall how Callistus used to look, but today he is a handsome middle-aged man who looks years younger than he is.
It is obvious that he devotes a good deal of time to his appearance: hair thick and skilfully dyed; body slender; manners a trifle too good, if you know what I mean.
“How pleasant to see you again, my dear Priscus!” He spoke as though we had been the most intimate of friends, even equals! I returned his greeting with that careful diffidence poverty owes wealth. He took my homage naturally. He asked me to sit down while he poured the wine himself, reverting to at least one of his old functions.
For a time we spoke of who was dead and who was living. To people our age, the former category is largest. Nevitta, Salutius, Sallust, Jovian, Valentinian, Valens are dead. But Victor is still on active duty in Gaul and Dagalaif serves in Austria; Arintheus, recently retired to a suburb of Constantinople, has taken to drink. Then we spoke of Persia and the days of our youth (or in my case the halcyon days of my middle age!). We mourned the dead. Then I got the subject round to Julian’s death. I told Catlistus of your plans. He was non-committal. I told him that you were in possession of the memoir. He said that he had known at the time that the Emperor was writing such a work and he had often wondered what had become of it. I told him. He smiled. Then I said,
“And of course there was the private journal.”
“A journal?” Callistus looked startled.
“Yes. A secret diary which the Emperor kept in the same box with the memoir.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It’s a most revealing work.”
“I am sure it is.” Callistus frowned.
“The Emperor knew about the plot against his life. He even knew who the conspirators were.”
Something in Callistus’ manner prompted me to add this lie.
“There were no conspirators.” Callistus was bland. “The Augustus was killed by a Persian cavalryman.”
“Who never collected the reward?”
Callistus shrugged. “Perhaps he himself was killed.”
“But why was this Persian cavalryman armed with a Roman spear?”
“That sometimes happens. In a battle one often takes whatever weapon is at hand. Anyway, I should know. I was with the Augustus, and I saw the Persian who struck him.”
This was unexpected. With some surprise, I asked, “But why, when Julian asked if you had seen his attacker, did you say you saw nothing?”
Callistus was not in the least rattled. “But I did see the Persian.”
He sounded perfectly reasonable. “And I told the Augustus that I saw him.”
“In front of Maximus and me, you said that you did not see who struck the blow.”
Callistus shook his head tolerantly. “It has been a long time, Priscus. Our memories are not what they were.”
“Implying that my memory is at fault?”
He gestured delicately. “Neither of us is exactly young.”
I tried another tack: “You have doubtless heard the rumour that a Christian soldier killed the Emperor?”
“Of course. But I was…”
“… there. Yes. And you know who killed him.”
Callistus’ face was a perfect blank. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. One can see why he has been such a success in business. Then: “How much did the Emperor know?” he asked, the voice flat and abrupt, very different from the easy, rather indolent tone he had been assuming.“He knew about Victor.”
Callistus nodded. “I was almost certain he knew. So was Victor.”
“Then you knew about the conspiracy?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Were you involved in it?”
“Very much so. You see, Priscus,” he gave me a most winning smile, “it was I who killed the Emperor Julian.”
There it is. The end of the mystery. Callistus told me everything. He regards himself as one of the world’s unique heroes, the unsung saviour of Christianity. As he talked, he paced up and down. He could not tell me enough. After all, for nearly twenty years he has had to keep silent. I was his first auditor. A cabal had been formed at Antioch. Victor was the ringleader. Arintheus, Jovian, Valentinian and perhaps twenty other Christian officers were involved. They vowed that Julian must not return from Persia alive. But because of his popularity with the European troops, his death must appear to be from natural causes.
Victor assigned Callistus to Julian as a bodyguard and servant. At first he was instructed to poison the Emperor. But that was not easily accomplished. Julian was in excellent health; he was known to eat sparingly; a sudden illness would be suspicious. Finally, an ambush was arranged with the Persians.
Julian has described how that failed. Then it was decided that Julian must die in battle. But he was an excellent soldier, highly conspicuous, always guarded. The conspirators were in despair until Callistus hit upon a plan.
“After the Battle of Maranga, I broke the straps of his breastplate.” Callistus’ eyes sparkled with delighted memory. “Luckily for us, the Persians attacked the next day and the Emperor was forced to go into battle without armour. He and I got caught up in the Persian retreat. He started to turn back but I shouted to him, ‘Lord, this way!’ And I led him into the worst of the fighting. For a moment I thought the Persians would kill him. But they were too terrified. When they recognized him, they fled. It was then that I knew that God had chosen me to be the instrument of his vengeance.” The voice lowered;
the jaw set. “We were hemmed in. The Emperor was using his shield to try and clear a path for himself through the tangle of horses and riders. Suddenly he twisted to his left and stood in his stirrups, trying to see over the heads of the Persians. This was my chance. I prayed for Christ to give me strength. Then I plunged my spear into his side.” Callistus stopped, obviously expecting some outcry at this. But I merely gave him that look of alert interest with which I reward those exceptional students who succeed in holding my attention.
“Go on,” I said politely.
Somewhat deflated, Callistus shrugged. “You know the rest. The Augustus didn’t realize he was wounded until after the Persians fled.” He smiled. “The Augustus even thanked me for having stayed so close to him.”
“It was a good thing for you that he suspected nothing.” But even as I said this I wondered whether or not Julian had known the truth. That remains the final mystery.
“But what is death?” asked Callistus, promptly losing all the respect I had come to have for him as a villain. He is an ass. He talked for another hour. He told me that Victor wanted to be emperor, but when he saw that this was impossible, he raised Jovian to the purple. Then the notoriously strong-willed Valentinian took Jovian’s place and that was the end of Victor. Meanwhile, Callistus was paid off handsomely by everyone. He has invested his money wisely and today he is a rich man. But he will not be a happy man until the world knows his secret. He suffers from what he feels to be an undeserved anonymity.
“By all means tell Libanius the truth. One did what one was born to do.” He looked pious. “I am proud of the part I have played in the history of Rome.” He turned his face to me left-three-quarters, in imitation of the famous bust of the second Brutus. Then he came off it. “But we’ll have to get permission from the palace before Libanius can publish, and I have no idea what the policy is now.
Under Valentinian, I was sworn to secrecy.”
“Did Valentinian know about you?”
“Oh, yes. He even gave me the salt concession for Thrace. But he ordered me to keep silent. And I have. Until today. Naturally, I hope that we can make the whole matter public, in the interest of history.”
Callistus offered me dinner but I chose to take nothing more from him. I said I must go. He accompanied me to the vestibule. He was all grace and tact, even when he chided me for never having acknowledged the “Ode to Julian” he had sent me. I apologized for my negligence. But then I said,
“How could you write such an affectionate work about the man you murdered?”
Callistus was perfect in his astonishment. “But I admired him tremendously! He was always kind to me. Every word I wrote about him was from the heart. After all, I am a good Christian, or try to be.
Every day I pray for his soul!”
I doubt if Theodosius will allow you to publish any of this. But one never knows. Anyway, I am finished with the whole thing and I ask you, please, to keep me out of it.