JULIAN

Nephew of Constantine the Great, and himself destined
to become Emperor and Augustus of the East and the
West, Flavius Claudius Julianus was one of the most
complex and fascinating characters in the development
of modern civilization.
Known to history as the Apostate, Julian was zealously
interested in the philosophy and literature of classical
Greece and Rome, and in the Old Religions of both those
empires, a preoccupation which brought him into conflict
with the established Christian Church of his empire and,
consequently, with his own society's ruling classes.
His creative reign, and the public and private effects
of his attempts to restore the old gods to their pre-
Christian eminence, make this a novel of deep interest
and involvement.
By making the greater part of the book Julian's 'auto-
biography', Gore Vidal has given fullest scope to his
outstanding talents as a novelist and dramatist. Julian
the Emperor, and his two old friends Libanius and Priscus,
are living people, rounded out to a degree of realit7
seldom found in the modern novel.


Clau(
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BOOKS BY

GORE VIDAL

NOVELS

Williwaw

In a Yellow Wood
The City and the Pillar
The Season of Comfort
A Search for a King
Dark Green, Bright Red
The ]udgment of Paris
Messiah

Julian

SHORT STORIES

A Thirsty Evil

PLAYS

Three Plays


GORE VIDAL

HEINEMANN :LONDON


William Heinemann Ltd

LONDON MELBOURNE TORONTO
CAPE TOWN AUCKLAND

First published in Great Britain x964
c ~962 and I964 by Gore Vidal

Printed in Great Britain
by Bookprint Limited
Kingswood, Surrey


For Lucien Price


himse

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A NOTE

Robert Graves, when he came to publish his sequel to I, Claudius,
remarked in a somewhat irritable preface that a good many re-
viewers seemed to think he had simply spun himself a novel from
Suetonius's gossip, which looked to them like a very easy thing
to do. In Claudius the God, Graves struck back with a long biblio-
graphy, listing nearly every relevant text which has survived from
the ancient world. Unfortunately, I have not read as much as all
that. But to anticipate those who might think that one's only
source was the history of Ammianus Marcellinus (or even of
Edward Gibbon), I have included at the end of the book a partial
bibliography.
The Emperor Julian's life is remarkably well documented. Three
volumes of his letters and essays survive, while such acquaintances
as Libanius and Saint Gregory of Nazianzus wrote vivid accounts
of him. Though I have written a novel, not a history, I have tried
to stay with the facts, only occasionally shifting things around.
For instance, it is unlikely that Priscus joined Julian in Gaul, but
it is useful to the narrative to have him there.
Julian has always been something of an underground hero in
Europe. His attempt to stop Christianity and revive Hellenism
exerts still a romantic appeal, and he crops up in odd places,
particularly during the Renaissance and again in the nineteenth
century. Two such unlikely authors as Lorenzo de' Medici and
Henilk Ibsen wrote plays about him. But aside from the unique
adventure of Julian's life, what continues to fascinate is the fourth
century itself. During the fifty years between the accession of
Julian's uncle Constantine the Great and Julian's death at thirty-
two, Christianity was established. For better or worse, we are
today very much the result of what they were then.
In naming cities, I give the modern rather than the ancient name
(Milan, not Mediolanum), except when the original name is more
familiar to us (Ephesus, not Selquk). Dates I put in our fashion,
^.t>. and B.c. Since Julian's court was a military one, I have used
our own amy's way of dating, i.e., 3 October 363. Currency is a
tricky matter. No one is quite certain what the exact purchasing
vii


power of money was in the fourth century, but a gold solidus was
probably worth about five dollars. Julian, Priscus and Libanius,
the three narrators of this story, all wrote Greek. Their Latin was
rather shaky, as they are quick to remind us, but they occasion-
ally use Latin terms, much the way we do. For those readers who
will search in vain for Julian's famous last words, "Thou hast
conquered, Galilean!", he never said them. Theodoret must take
credit for this fine rhetoric, composed a century after Julian's
death.
I should like to thank the American Academy at Rome and the
American School of Classical Studies at Athens for letting me use
their libraries.
G.V.

VIII


YOUTH


Libanius to I~riscus                 Antioch, March [A.D.] 380
Yesterday morning as I was about to enter the lecture hall, I
was stopped by a Christian student who asked me in a voice eager
with malice, "Have you heard about the Emperor Theodosius ?"
I cleared my throat ready to investigate the nature of this ques-
tion, but he was too quick for me. "He has been baptized a
Christian."
I was non-committal. Nowadays, one never knows who is a
secret agent. Also, I was not particularIy surprised at the news.
When Theodosius fell ill last winter and the bishops arrived like
vultures to pray over him, I knew that should he recover they
would take full credit for having saved him. He survived. Now
we have a Christian emperor in the East, to match Gratian, our
Christian emperor in the West. It was inevitable.
I turned to go inside but the young man was hardly finished
with his pleasant task. "Theodosius has also issued an edict. It
was iust read in front of the senate house. I heard it. Did you ?"
"No. But I always enjoy imperial prose," I said politely.
"You may not enjoy this. The Emperor has declared heretic all
those who do not follow the Nicene Creed."
"I'm afraid Christian theology is not really my subject. The
edict hardly applies to those of us who are still faithful to
philosophy."
"It applies to everyone in the East." He said this slowly, watch-
ing me all the while. "The Emperor has even appointed an In-
quisitor to determine one's faith. The days of toleration are over."
I was speechless; the sun flared in my eyes; all things grew
confused and I wondered if I was about to faint, or even die.
But the voices of two colleagues recalled me. I could tell by the
way they greeted me that they, too, had heard about the edict and
were curious to know my reaction. I gave them no pleasure.
"Of couse I expected it," I said. "The Empress Posturea wrote
me only this week to say that..." I invented freely. I have not
of course heard from the Empress in some months, but I thought
that the enemy should be reminded to what extent I enjoy the
fayour of Gratian and Postuma. It is humiliating to be forced


to protect oneself in this way, but these are dangerous times.
I did not lecture yesterday. I went straight home. I am now
living in Daphne, by the way, a charming suburb which I prefer
to Antioch proper because of the quiet. As I get older, I find that
the slightest sound in the night disturbs me and, once awake, I
have difficulty falling asleep again. You can imagine how intoler-
able my old house in the city became. You remember the house; it
was there that I gave the reception for the Emperor Julian when
he . . . But I forget. You were not there, and you were much
missed! My memory plays me odd tricks these days. Even worse,
I tend to mislay the notes I iot down as reminders, or (terrible
confession l) when I do find them, I am often unable to decipher
my own handwriting. Age spares us nothing, old friend. Like
ancient trees, we die from the top.
Except for occasional lectures, I seldom go into town, for the
people, though my own, distress me with their loud voices and
continual quarrelling, their gambling and sensuality. They are
hopelessly frivolous. Nights are made day with artificial light,
while nearly all the men now use depilatories, which makes it
difficult to tell them from women . . . to think how I once
eulogized this city! But I suppose one must be tolerant, recalling
that the Antiochenes are the victims of a demoralizingly sultry
climate, the proximity of Asia and of course that pernicious
Christian doctrine which asserts that a sprinkling of water (and
a small donation) will wash away sin, again and again and again.
Now, my old friend, as I sit here in my study surrounded by our
proscribed friends (I mean those books of Greece which made the
mind of man), let me tell you what thoughts I had last night- a
sleepless night not only because of the edict but because two
cats saw fit to enliven my despair with the noise of lust (only an
Egyptian would worship a cat). I am weary today but determined.
We must fight back. What happens to us personally is not im-
portant, but what happens to civilization is a matter of desperate
concern. During my sleepless night, I thought of various appeals
that might be made to our new Emperor. I have a copy of the
edict before me as I write. It is composed in bad bureaucratic
Greek, the official style of the bishops, whose crudity of language
is equalled only by the confusion of their thought. Not unlike those
celebrated minutes of the council at- where was it ? Chalcedon ?
-which we used to read aloud to one another with such delight!
Carefree days, never to come again. Unless we act now.

[31


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Priscus, I am sixty-six years old and you are, as I recall, a
dozen years older than I. We have reached an age when death is
a commonplace not to be feared, especially by us, for is not all
philosophy but preparation for a serene dying ? And are we not
true philosophers who have nothing to lose but that which in the
natural course we shall surrender in any case, more soon than
late ? I have already had several seizures in recent years which left
me unconscious and weakened, and of course my chronic cough,
aggravated by an unseasonable wet winter, threatens to choke me
to death at any time. I am also losing my sight; and I suffer from
a most painful form of gout. Therefore let us, fearing nothing,
join forces and strike back at the Christians before they entirely
destroy the world we love.
My plan is this. Seventeen years ago when you returned from
Persia, you told me that our beloved friend and pupil, the
Emperor Julian, had written a fragment of memoir which you had
got hold of at the time of his death. I have often thought to write
you for a copy, simply for my own edification. I realized then, as
did you, that publication was out of the question, popular though
Julian was and still is, even though his work to restore the true
gods has been undone. Under the Emperors Valentinian and Valens
we had to be politic and cautious if we were to be allowed to go
on teaching. But now in the light of this new edict, I say: an end
to caution! We have nothing but two old bodies to lose, while
there is eternal glory to be gained by publishing Julian's memoir,
with an appropriate biography to be written by either or both of
us. I knew his quality best, of course, but you were with him in
Persia and saw him die. So between the two of us, I his teacher
and you his philosopher-companion, we can rehabilitate his
memory and with close reasoning show the justice of his contest
with the Christians. I have written about him in the past, and
boldly. I refer particularly to the eulogy I composed just after his
death when, if I may say so, I was able to bring tears even to hard
Christian eyes. Shortly afterwards, I published my correspondence
with Julian. Incidentally, I sent you a copy and though you never
acknowledged this gift, I do hope you found it interesting. If by
any chance you did not receive it, I shall be happy to send you
another one. I kept all of Julian's letters to me over the years, as
well as copies of my own letters to him. One can never rely on
the great keeping one's letters; and should those letters vanish, one
is apt to be remembered only as the mysterious half of a dialogue

[4]


to be reconstructed in the vaguest way from the surviving (and
sometimes lesser!) half of the exchange. Finally, I am at work on
an oration to be called "On Avenging the Emperor Julian". I
mean to dedicate this work to Theodosius.
Let me know as soon as possible if you concur in my plan. I
repeat: we have nothing to lose. And the world has much to gain.
By the way, as a sign of the times, there is now a Latin Academy
at Antioch, with a heavy enrolment. It is enough to chill the
blood. The young men are deserting Hellenic studies for Roman
law in the hopes of government preferment. My own classes are
still large but many of my colleagues are literally starving to
death. Recently, a student (Christian, of course) most tactfully
suggested that I, Libanius, learn Latin! At my age and after a life-
time devoted to Greek ! I told him that as I was not a lawyer there
was nothing I needed to read in that ugly language, which has
produced only one poem and that a depressing paraphrase of our
great Homer.
I hope after so many years of silence between us that this letter
finds you and your admirable wife~ Hippin, in good health. I envy
you your life at Athens, the natural centre of our universe. Do I
need to add that I will of course defray any expenses you might
incur in having Julian's memoir copied? The price of copying,
luckily, is less at Athens than here at Antioch. Books always cost
more in those cities where they are least read!
Added: An old rumour has just been confirmed. The Great King
of Persia, Sapor, is dead at last. He was over eighty and reigned
most of his life. A strange coincidence that the king who struck
down our beloved Julian should die just as we are about to restore
his memory. I was once told that Sapor had read my Life of
Demosthenes and admired it. How marvellous books are, crossing
worlds and centuries, defeating ignorance and, finally, cruel time
itself. Let us make Julian live again, and for all time!

Priscus to Libanius                         Athens, March 38o
Yes, the edict is well known here, but the general feeling at the
University is that despite its severe tone we are not apt to be per-
secuted. The schools are flourishing. The little Christians flock
to us to be civilized, and I find them much like their Hellenist
brothers. But then all young people seem to me more and more
alike. They ask the same questions and they give you the same
answers to the questions they ask you. I despair of teaching any-


one anything, least of all myself. I have not had a new idea since
I was twenty-seven. That is why I don't publish my lectures. Also,
too many of us publish out of vanity or to attract students. At
seventy-five (I am nine, not a dozen, years older than you) I am
an empty flagon. Tap me and you will hear an awful hollow sound.
My head is a tomb quite as empty as the one Jesus is supposed
to have walked away from. I incline now to Crates and the early
Cynics, less to Plato and the rest. I am not in the least convinced
that there is a Divine Oneness at the centre of the universe, nor
am I susceptible to magic, unlike Julian, who was hopelessly
gullible. I often thought Maximus exploited his good-heartedness.
But then I never could endure Maximus. How he used to waste
Julian's time with his sdances and arcane gibberish! I tea~ed the
Emperor about him once, but Julian only laughed and said, "Who
knows through what door wisdom will walk ?"
As to your publishing project, I am not at all certain that a
sympathetic biography of Julian would have the slightest effect at
this time. Theodosius is a military politician, impressed by bishops.
He might of course sanction a biography of his predecessor simply
because Julian is much admired to this day, though not for his
philosophy. Julian is admired because he was young and handsome
and the most successful general of our century. The people have a
touching admiration for generals who win battles, which is why
there are no heroes today. But if Theodosius did permit a
biography, it would have to avoid the religious issue. The bishops
would see to that. And for ferocity there is nothing on earth to
equal a Christian bishop hunting "heresy", as they call any opinion
contrary to their own. Especially confident are they on that sub-
ject where they are as ignorant as the rest of mankind. I mean
death. Anyway, I don't want to fight them, because I am one and
they are many. And though I am, as you so comfortingly suggest,
old and near the end of my life, I enjoy amazingly good health. I
am told that I look no different than I did at forty, and I am still
capable of the sexual act at almost any time. This vitality repels
Hippia, who has aged noticeably in the last few years, but it
seems to please various young women in a certain quarter of
Athens which you doubtless have heard of-in novels of the
Milesian school !
Do I make myself clear ? I have no wish to be burned alive or
stoned or tacked up to the door of a Christian church, or "charnel
house" as Julian used to call them. You may be as brave as you like

[6]



and I will applaud you in my heart. But I have no intention of
writing a single sentence about Julian, fond as I was of him and
alarmed as I am at the strange course our world has taken since
the adventurer Constantine sold us to the bishops.
Julian's memoir was written during the last four months of his
life. It was begun in March ~6~, at Hierapolis. Nearly every night
during our invasion of Persia he would dictate recollections of his
earl7 life. The result is a bit helter-skelter, for both as a writer
and as a man he was swift and impulsive. He once told me that he
would like to compose an autobiography of the order of Marcus
Aurelius to HimseIś, but he lacked that writer's discipline. Julian
was also influenced by Xenophon's The March Upcountry, since
Xenophon took much the same route we did seven centuries later.
Julian's interest in history was always lively, and he was a great
sightseer. The resulting memoir is something of a hybrid; even so,
Julian was often an engaging writer, and if he was not better it is
because it is hard to be emperor, philosopher and general all at
once. He was also indiscreet about everyone. I hope you forgive
him. I have done so. He suspected that he had very little time and
he wanted to get everything said. As for his mysterious death, I
have a theory as to what happened, which I will explain to you in
due course.
I have never quite known what to do with this work. When
Julian died, I took all his personal papers, suspecting that his
Christian successors would destroy them. I had no right to these
papers, of course, but I don't regret my theft. I told no one about
the memoir until I was back safe in Antioch, where I must have
mentioned it to you the day you read us your famous eulogy. I was
so moved by your eloquence that I betrayed my own confidence.
I am now having a fair copy made of the manuscript. You are
misinformed if you think copying is cheaper here than at Antioch.
Quite the contrary. The estimated cost will run to eighty gold
solidi, which I suggest you send by return post. On receipt of the
full amount, I will send you the book to use as you see fit. Only
do not mention to anyone that I had any connection with the
matter. I have not the slightest desire to endure martyrdom at
this time, or ever.
I thought I had written you about your collection of letters. I
did get the book and it was very thoughtful of you to send it to
me. We are all in your debt for those letters, especially yours to
Julian. They are wise. I know of no other philosopher so sensible
[7]


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of posterity as to keep copies of every letter he writes, realizing
that even his most trivial effusion has, in the context of the large
body of his work, an eternal value. Hippia joins me in wishing you
good health.

Libanius to Priscus                                       Antioch, April 380

You cannot imagine the pleasure I experienced when your letter
was brought to me this evening. So eager was I to hear your voice
again, as it were, that I fear I ripped the fastenings and tore the
long-awaited page itself. But rest assured, your precious letter will
be mended with glue and cherished, since any utterance of your
g.enius is an essential reflection of the Hellenic spirit to be passed
on to those who come after.
Let me say right off how pleased I am to learn of your unfiag-
ging sexual vigour. It is always inspiring to the rest of us to learn
that in certain rare human beings the usual cycle of sad decline
does not obtain. You have been indeed favoured by the gods and
in your obvious enjoyment of that fayour will never sigh at eighty,
as did Sophocles, "At last I am free of a cruel and insane master!"
Your master is obviously a good companion, made even more en-
joyable by Hippia's acquiescence. Not many wives of philosophers
would allow their husbands freedom to consort with those
deliciously civilized ladies of Athens whose evening parties used
to delight me in my student days. Now of course my life is devoted
to philosophy and affairs of state. I leave to younger men the
charms of Aphrodite . . . to younger men and now, Priscus, to
you, who have held at arm's length the villain time! Fortunate
man! Fortunate girls to be so loved!
Since I wrote you last, I have not been idle. Through the office of
the praetorian prefect at Constantinople, I have proposed myself
for an audience with the Emperor. Theodosius has met very few
people of our set, coming as he does from Spain, a country not
noted for culture. He also belongs to a military family and there
is no evidence that he has ever studied philosophy. Outside of
politics, his principal interest is breeding sheep. But he is only
thirty-three and his character, according to the best information
available, is mild. Though we should not count on this. How often
in the past have we been horrified by princes reputed to be good
who, when raised to the throne of the world, have turned
monstrous before our eyes! The late Valens for example, or
Julian's own brother, the Caesar Gallus, a charming youth who

[8]


brought terror to the East. We must be on our guard, as always.
The question that now faces us is: how seriously will Theo-
dosius enforce the edict ? It is customary for emperors who listen
to bishops to hurl insults at the very civilization that created them.
They are inconsistent, but then logic has never been a strong point
of the Christian faith. The extraordinary paradox is the collusion
of our princes with the bishops. The emperors pride themselves
on being first magistrates of the Roman imperium, through whose
senate they exercise their power; and though in reality we have
not been Roman for a century, nevertheless, the śorm persists,
making it impossible, one would think, for any prince who calls
himself Augustus to be Christian, certainly not as long as the Altar
of Victory remains in the senate house at Rome. But confusions
of this sort are as inconsequential to the Christian mind as clouds
to a day in summer, and as a teacher I no longer try to refute
them; since most of my students are Christian, I suppose I ought
to be grateful that they have chosen to come to me to be taught
that very philosophy their faith subverts. It is comedy, Priscus!
It is tragedy !
Meanwhile, we can only wait to see what happens. The Emperor
grows stronger in health every day, and it is thought that later this
spring he may take the field against the Goths, who as usual are
threatening the marches of Macedonia. If he decides to go north,
that means he will not return to Constantinople till late summer or
autumn, in which case I will have to attend him at Thessalonica
or, worse, in the field. If so, I am confident the journey will be my
last. For my health, unlike yours, continues to deteriorate. I have
coughing fits which leave me weak and longing for the grave. I
have also developed a curious rash on the backs of my hands and
forearms which may be the result of eating a bad flounder last
week (shades of Diogenes and the fatal raw octopus!), or it may
be the outward sign of a corruption in the blood. How I wish
Oribasius were in Antioch ! He is the only physician I ever trusted,
in which I follow Julian, who used to say, "The god Asklepios gave
Oribasius secrets known only to heaven."
Over the years I have made a number of notes for a biography
of Julian. I have them before me now. All that remains is the final
organization of the material-and of course the memoir. Please
send it to me as soon as the copy is ready. I shall work on it this
summer, as I am no longer lecturing. I thought it wise to go into
seclusion until we know which way the wind blows.'

[9]


hh
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I don't need to tell you that Antioch has ignored the edict.
Never in my memory has Antioch obeyed the imperial authority
except at sword's point. I have often warned the local senate that
emperors do not like disobedience, but our people feel that they
are beyond law and reprisal. The folly of the clever is always
greater than that of the dull. I tremble for Antioch, even though
I am currently a beneficiary of its absence of reverence for the
decrees of Caesar.
There have been no incidents so far. My Christian friends come
to see me as usual (rather a large number of my old students are
now bishops, a peculiar irony). Colleagues who are still lecturing
tell me that their classes are much as usual. The next move is up to
Theodosius, or, to be exact, up to the bishops. Luckily for us, they
have been so busy for so long persecuting one another that we
have been able to survive. But reading between the lines of the
edict, I suspect a bloodbath. Theodosius has outlawed with
particular venom the party of the late Bishop Arius on the
grounds that Galileans must now have a church with a single
doctrine to be called universal ... a catholic church, no less! To
balance this, we must compose a true life of Julian. So let us
together fashion one last wreath of Apollonian laurel to place
upon the brow of philosophy, as a brave sign against the winter
that threatens this stormy late season of the world. I want those
who come after us to realize what hopes we had for life, and I
want them to see how close our Julian came to arresting the disease
of Galilee. Such a work, properly done, would be like a seed planted
in the autumn to await the sun's awakening, and a new flowering.
Apparently, the cost of copying at Athens has gone up in-
credibly since I had some work done there last year. I find eighty
gold solidi exorbitant for what you say is a fragment, or a book
of moderate length. Only last summer I paid thirty solidi for a
Plotinus which, in length, must be treble that of Julian's memoir.
I send now by a friend who embarks tomorrow for Athens thirty
gold solidi and this letter. Again my best wishes t? the admirable
Hippia, and to you, my old friend and fellow soldier in the wars
of philosophy.

?riscus to Libanius                           Athens, ]une 380
I send you by my pupil Glaucon something less than half of the
Emperor Julian's memoir. It cost me exactly thirty solidi to have
this much copied. On receipt of the remaining fifty solidi I shall

[xo]


send you the rest of the book. I can only assume that the copying
you had done in Athens last summer was the work of an admirer
who gave you a cut price as a sign of his esteem for your high
contributions to philosophy and rhetoric.
I do not share your pessimism about the new Emperor. He is
hardly what we would have picked had the choice been ours, but
then the choice never has been ours. Julian's accession was the
work of Fortune, a deity notable for her absence in human affairs.
We can hardly hope to have another Julian in our lifetime. And
that is that.
I have studied the edict since I wrote you last, and though it is
somewhat sterner in tone than Constantine's, I suspect the only
immediate victims will be those Christians who follow Arius. But
I may be mistaken. I almost always am in political matters, a
weakness no doubt of the philosophic temperament. However,
what does give me hope was last year's appointment of the
"poet" Ausonius as consul. Do you know him ? I am sure you've
read him. If not, you have a treat in store. I have lately become
rather an expert on his career. He started life as the son of a well-
to~do doctor in Bordeaux. His phenomenal luck began when the
Emperor Valentinian made him tutor to his son Gratian. As
Ausonius himself puts it, he "moulded the tiny mind of the infant
prince". When the prince became emperor, he rewarded his old
tutor by making him praetorian prefect of Gaul as well as consul
for last year. I mention all this because Ausonius is inclined
favourably to us, and he exerts a considerable influence not only
on Gratian (who is far too busy hunting wild boar in Gaul to dis-
tress us unduly) but on Theodosius as well. He is obviously the
man for you to cultivate.
Not long ago I sent round to the library to see what they had by
Ausonius. The slave returned with a wheelbarrow full of books.
Ausonius must be read to be believed! As poet, no subject is too
trivial for him; as courtier, no flattery too excessive. He did write
one passable nature poem on the Moselle, but I'm not keen on
rivers. The rest of his work is quite marvellous in its tedium.
Particularly those verses he wrote at Valentinian's request. Among
the subjects chosen by the Emperor were the source of the Danube
(Ausonius did not locate it but he made a good try), Easter, and
(best of all) four odes to the Emperor's four favourite horses. I
had one of these equine odes copied out and Hippia reads it to me
whenever I am depressed. It begins "Oh raven steed, whose fortune

[~]


it is to spread the golden thighs and Mars-like firm convexities of
divine Augustus . . ." I don't know when I have enjoyed a
poem so much. I'll enclose a copy. Anyway, I suggest you see
Ausonius as soon as possible. And of course you will remember
to express admiration for his work! In a good cause hypocrisy
becomes virtue.
I never go to evening parties. The quarter I referred to in my
letter was not the elegant street of Sardes but the quarter of the
prostitutes near the agora. I don't go to parties because I detest
talking-women, especially our Athenian ladies who see themselves
as heiresses to the age of Pericles. Their conversation is hopelessly
pretentious and artificial. Their dinners are inedible, and for some
reason they all tend to be rather squat with dark vestigial mous-
taches; no doubt Aphrodite's revenge on the talking-woman. I live
very quietly at home with an occasional visit to the quarter.
Hippia and I get along rather better than we used to. Much of
her charm for me has been her lifelong dislike of literature. She
talks about servants and food and relatives, and I find her restful.
Also, I have in the house a Gothic girl, bought when she was
eleven. She is now a beautiful woman, tall and well made, with
eyes grey as Athena's. She never talks. Eventually I shall buy her
a husband and free them both as a reward for her serene accept-
ance of my attentions, which delight her far less than they do
me. But that is often the case with the feminine half of Plato's
ugliest beast. But then Plato disliked sexual intercourse between
men and women. We tend of course to think of Plato as divine,
but I am afraid he was rather like our old friend Iphicles, whose
passion for youths has become so outrageous that he now lives
day and night in the baths, where the boys call him the queen of
philosophy.
I am sorry to hear that your health grows worse but that is to
be expected at our age. The rash you refer to does sound like bad
fish. I suggest a diet of bread and water, and not much of either.
On receipt of the money, I will send you the balance of the
memoir. It will disturb and sadden you. I shall be curious to see
how you use this material. Hippia ioins me in wishing for your
good - or should I say better ? - health.
You will not in the memoir that Julian invariably refers to the
Christians as "Galileans" and to their churches as "charnel houses",
this last a dig at their somewhat necrophile passion for the relics of
dead men. I think it might be a good idea to alter the text, and re-


convert those charnel houses into churches and those Galileans
into Christians. Never offend an enemy in a small way.
Here and there in the text, I have made marginal notes. I hope
you won't find them too irrelevant.



convert those charnel houses into churches and those Galileans
into Christians. Never offend an enemy in a small way.
Here and there in the text, I have made marginal notes. I hope
you won't find them too irrelevant.

[~3]


hit
Au
CI:
COl
de'

The Memoir of Julian Augustus
From the example of my uncle the Emperor Constantine, called
the Great, who died when I was six years old, I learned that it is
dangerous to side with any party of the Gallleans, for they mean
to overthrow and veil those things that are truly holy. I can
hardly remember Constantine, though I was once presented to
him at the Sacred Palace. I dimly recall a giant, heavily scented,
wearing a stiff jewelled robe. My older brother Gallus always
said that I tried to pull his wig off. But Gallus had a cruel humour,
and I doubt that this story was true. If I had tugged at the
Emperor's wig, I would surely not have endeared myself to him,
for he was as vain as a woman about his appearance; even his
Galilean admirers admit to that.
From my mother Basilina I inherited my love of learning. I never
knew her. She died shortly after my birth, 7 April 3~I. She was
the daughter of the praetorian prefect Julius Julianus. From
portraits I resemble her more than I do my father; I share with her
a straight nose and rather full lips, unlike the imperial Flavians,
who tend to have thin hooked noses and tight pursed mouths.
The Emperor Constantius, my cousin and predecessor, was a
typical Flavian, resembling his father Constantine, except that he
was much shorter. But I did inherit the Flavian thick chest and
neck, legacy of our Illyrian ancestors, who were men of the moun-
tains. My mother, though Galilean, was devoted to literature. She
was taught by the eunuch Mardonius, who was also my tutor.
From Mardonius, I learned to walk modestly with my eyes to
the ground, not strutting or measuring the effect I was creating on
others. I was also taught self-discipline in all things; he particularly
tried to keep me from talking too much. Fortunately, now that I
am Emperor everyone delights in my conversation! Mardonius
also convinced me that time spent at the games or in the theatre
was time wasted. And, finally, it was from Mardonius, a Galilean
who loved Hellenism too well, that I learned about Homer and
Hesiod, Plato and Theophrastos. He was a good teacher, if severe.
From my cousin and predecessor, the Emperor Constantius, I
learned to dissemble and disguise my true thoughts. A dreadful

[~4]


lesson, but had I not learned it I would not have lived past my
twentieth year. In the year 337 Constantius murdered my father.
His crime? Consanguinity. I was spared because I was six years
old; my half-brother Gallus- who was eleven years old-was
spared because he was sickly and not expected to live.

Yes, I was trying to imitate the style of Marcus Aurelius to Him-
self, and I have failed. Not only because I lack his purity and
goodness, but because while he was able to write of the good
things he learned from a good family and good friends, I must
write of those bitter things I learned from a family of murderers
in an age diseased by the quarrels and intolerance of a sect whose
purpose it is to overthrow that civilization whose first note was
struck upon blind Homer's lyre. I am not Marcus Aurelius, in
excellence or in experience. I must speak now in my own voice.

I never saw my mother. But I do recall my father. Julius Con-
stantius was a tall imposing man. At least he seemed tall to me then.
Actually, from his statues, I reckon him to have been somewhat
shorter than I am now, and broader. He was most gentle with
Gallus and me on those occasions when we saw him, which was
not often for he was always travelling, attending to the various
small tasks the Emperor set him. I should mention here that at
one time my father was thought to have had a better right to the
throne than his half-brother Constantine. But it was never his
nature to protest. He was gentle; he was weak; he was destroyed.
On 22 May ~37, Constantine died at Nicomedia, to his apparent
surprise, since he had just taken the water cure at Helenopolis
and all the omens suggested a long life. On his deathbed he sent
for our cousin, Bishop Eusehius, to baptize him. Just before the
Bishop arrived, Constantine is supposed to have said, rather
nervously, "Let there be no mistake." I'm afraid that sounds
exactly like him. He was not one to leave, as Aristophanes so
wittily puts it, a single stone unturned. Constantine was never a
true Galilean; he merely used Christianity to extend his dominion
over the world. He was a shrewd professional soldier, badly
educated and not in the least interested in philasophy, though
some perverse taste in him was hugely satisfied by doctrinal dis-
putes; the mad haggling of bishops fascinated him.


According to Constantine's will, the empire was to be divided
between his three surviving sons, each of whom had already been
raised to the rank of Caesar. (Every schoolchild knows this but
will they always?) To the twenty-one-year-old Constantine II
went the prefecture of Gaul. To Constantius, twenty, the East. To
Constans, sixteen, Italy and Illyricum. Each was to assume auto-
matically the title Augustus. Surprisingly enough, this division of
the world was carried out peaceably. After the funeral (which I
was too young to attend), Constantine II withdrew immediately to
his capital at Vienne. Constans set out for Milan. Constantius took
over the Sacred Palace at Constantinople.
Then the murders began. Constantius maintained that there was
a plot against his life, instigated by the children of Theodora, who
had been legitimate wife to his grandfather Constantius Chlorus,
whose concubine Helena, Constantine's mother, had been discarded
when his father was raised to the purple. Yes, it all sounds a
muddle to those who read of such matters, but to us, caught in the
web, these relationships are as murderously plain as that of
spider to fly.
Some say there was indeed such a plot, but I doubt it. I am cer-
tain that my father was in no way disloyal. He had not protested
when his half-brother Constantine became emperor. Why should
he protest the elevation of his son? In any case, during the
course of that terrible summer, a dozen descendants of Theo-
dora were secretly arrested and executed, among them my
father.
The day of my father's arrest Mardonius and I had been out
walking in the gardens of the Sacred Palace. I don't recall where
Gallus was; probably sick in bed with fever. For some reason, when
Mardonius and I returned to the house, we entered the front door
instead of the back, our usual entrance.
It was a pleasant evening and, again contrary to custom, I went
to my father where he sat in the atrium with his estate manager.
I remember the white and scarlet roses that had been trained to
grow in trellises between the columns. And-what else do I
remember ? The lion-footed chair. A round marble table. The dark-
faced Spanish estate manager sitting on a stool to my father's
left, a sheaf of papers in his lap. As I dictate these words, I can
suddenly remember everything. Yet until this moment-how
strange- I had forgotten the roses and my father's face, which
was-which is- all clear to me again. What a curious thing

[~6]


memory is! He was ruddy-faced, with small grey eyes, and on
his left cheek there was a shallow pale scar, like a crescent.
"This," he said, turning to the manager, "is the best part of
my estate. Guard him well." I had no idea what he was talking
about. I am sure that I was embarrassed. It was rare at any time
for my father to speak to me. Not for lack of affection but be-
cause he was even more shy and diffident than I, and not at all
certain how to behave with children.
Birds - yes, I can hear them again - chattered in the branches of
the trees. My father continued to speak of me, and I listened to the
birds and looked at the fountain, aware that something strange
impended. He said that Nicomedia was "safe", and I wondered
what he meant by that. The estate manager agreed. They spoke
of our cousin, Bishop Eusebius; he was also "safe". I stared at the
fountain: Greek of the last century, a sea nymph on a dolphin
whose mouth poured water into a basin. Remembering this, I
realize now why I had a similar fountain installed in my garden
when I was at Paris. Can one remember everything if one tries
this hard ? (Note: Have copy of fountain made for Constantinople
if original can't be found.)
Then my father dismissed me with an awkward pat; no last
word, no mark of undue affection; such is shyness.
While I was having supper, the soldiers came. Mardonius was
terrified. I was so astonished by his fright that at first I could
hardly understand what was happening. When I heard the soldiers
in the atrium, I jumped to my feet. "What's that? Who's that!"
I asked.
"Sit down," said Mardonius. "Don't move. Don't make a sound."
His smooth beardless eunuch face with its thousand lines like a
piece of crumpled silk had gone the colour of a corpse. I broke
away from him, in wonder at his fear. Clumsily, he tried to bar me
from leaving the room, but now, more alarmed by his fear than by
the noise of strange men in the house, I bolted past him to the
empty atrium. In the vestibule beyond, a woman slave stood weep-
ing. The front door was open. The porter clung to the frame as
if he had been nailed to it. Through the woman's soft weeping,
I heard the sound armed men make in a street: creaking leather,
dull clank of metal upon metal, and the hollow thud of thick-soled
boots on stone.
The porter tried to stop me but I dodged past him into the street.
Half a block away, I saw my father walking at the centre of a

[~7]


formation of soldiers, led by a young tribune. Shouting, I ran after
him. The soldiers did not halt but my father half-turned as he
walked. His face was paler than the ashes of a wood fire. In a
terrible voice, stern as Zeus, a voice I had never heard him use
before, he said, "Go back! Now!"
I stopped dead in the centre of the street, several yards from
him. The tribune stopped, too, and looked at me curiously. Then
my father turned on him and said peremptorily, "Go on. This is
no sight for a child."
The tribune grinned. "We'll be back for him soon enough."
Then the porter from our house seized me, and though I cried and
fought, he carried me back into the house.
Several days later in one of the wine cellars of the Sacred Palace,
my father was beheaded. No charges were made. There was no
trial. I do not know where he was buried or if he was buried.

It is remarkable how many odd details come back to me as I
write. For instance, the tribune's smile, which I had forgotten for
twenty years. I find myself suddenly wondering: what ever be-
came of him ? Where is he today ? Do I know him ? Is he one of my
generals ? Could it have been Victor ? Jovian ? Each is the right age.
No, better to let the past go, to preserve it only here upon the
page. Vengeance must end somewhere, and what better place to
stop than at the prince ?
I soon discovered what my father had meant during that cryptic
conversation with the estate manager. We were to be sent to our
cousin Eusebius, bishop of Nicomedia. He was to be our guardian.
The day after the arrest of our father, Mardonius hustled Gallus
and me into a wagon with only our personal clothing. Except to
change horses, we drove the fifty miles to Nicomedia without rest.
Once we were stopped by mounted troops. With quavering voice,
Mardonius told them that we were under the personal protection
of the Emperor Constantius. They let us pass. We drove all day
and all night.
That night! Gallus was suffering from the fever which nearly
killed him. In his delirium, tortured by fever demons, he writhed
on the pallet set for him on the wagon's floor. Mardonius put linen
soaked in vinegar on his face- acrid odour of vinegar-yes,
vinegar still recalls that terrible night to me. At one point I touched
his face and found it hot as a damp cloth left in the sun to dry.

[18]


His golden hair was dark with sweat; his arms railed air; he
shouted dream-words and wept.
Wide awake, I sat on the bench beside Mardonius as we jolted
over country roads, the warm night as bright as day from a huge
yellow moon that shone before us, like a beacon fire set for ships.
I spoke not at all that night. And though I was only six years
old, I kept saying to myself: you are going to die; and I wondered
what it was like to be dead. I think I became a philosopher that
night, for in my youth and ignorance I was more curious than
frightened. I suspect that I was even a bit thrilled by this desperate
journey across unfamiliar country, with a gold moon blazing and
Gallus writhing at my feet, begging me to give him a stick to fight
the demons with.

We survived, to our surprise. For five years Gallus and I lived
with Bishop Eusebius at Nicomedia and, later, at Constantinople.
Eusebius was a grave old man, and though he did not like children
he treated us kindly. More to the point, he forbade Constantius to
come near us and Constantius obeyed him, for Eusebius was a
great power in the Galilean hierarchy. Two years after he became
our guardian he was made bishop of Constantinople, where in
effect he governed the Eastern church until his death.
Children get used to anything. For a time we missed our father;
then we forgot him. Mardonius was always with us, maintaining
a link with the old life, and of course my mother's brother Count
Julian often visited us. A charming bureaucrat with a taste for
intrigue, he kept us informed of what was happening in the world.
It was he who explained to us how Constantius was making him-
self sole master of the state. In the year 3~o Constans and Constan-
tine II disagreed. They went to war. Constantine II was ambushed
at Aquileia and executed. Constans became sole ruler in the West.
Then a general named Magnentius declared himself Augustus and
drove Constans from Autun to the Pyrenees, where he was
murdered in the winter of 350. The West was in chaos. While
Magnentius was desperately trying to hold together his stolen
empire, a general on the Danube named Vetranio declared hJmselif
emperor.
To give Constantius his due, he had a genius for civil war. He
knew when to strike and, more important, whom to strike. He
always won. I have often thought that had he lived he might have


hir
Au
C1;
COl
de,

destroyed me in the same way that he had dealt with all the
others. Faced with two usurpers, Constantius took the field in 35o.
Vetranio collapsed immediately and, unique in our history, was
spared. Magnentius of course was defeated in the battle of Mursa,
28 September 352. This was one of the crucial moments in our
history. To this day our army has not recovered from the loss of
fifty-four thousand of our best troops.
Needless to say, I knew none of these emperors and usurpers.
In fact, I don't recall ever meeting my cousins Constans and Con-
stantine II. For that matter, I did not meet Constantius himself
until I was sixteen years old; a meeting I shall presently describe
in detail.
While princes schemed and fought, I was educated by Mar-
donius. He was a strict but inspiring teacher. I liked him. Gallus
hated him, but then Gallus hated nearly everyone sooner or
later. I recall once when I wanted to watch some chariot races,
Mardonius said, "If you want games, read Homer. Nothing in life
can equal what he wrote of games, or of anything else." Madden-
ing injunction to a child, but wise. As it turned out, I was a grown
man before I attended either the theatre or the arena, and then
only because I did not want to give offence to others. Yes, I was
something of a prig, and still am!

I have but one clear memory of Bishop Eusebius. It was the
afternoon he decided to drill me himself in the life of the Nazarene.
For hours we sat in a side chapel of the cathedral at Nicomedia
while he questioned me. I was bored. The Bishop had a talent for
explaining only those things one already knew, leaving mysterious
those things one would like to have known. He was a heavy, pale
old man, slow of speech and much too easy to follow. Simply for
diversion, I stared at the ceiling, which was vaulted and divided
into four sections, each dedicated to one of the seasons. In the most
brilliant mosaic, flowers and vines, birds and fishes were all ~nter-
twined. I knew that ceiling by heart for Gallus and I prayed three
times a day in this particular chapel, and during those tedious
prayers I used to imagine that I had the power to rise straight up
in the air and enter that world of peacocks and palm trees and
grape arbours, a gleaming world of gold where there was no sound
but that of running water and birds singing - certainly no sermons,
no prayers! A few years ago when Nicomedia was shattered by

[2o]


earthquake, my first question concerned the cathedral: did it still
stand ? Yes, I was told, but the roof had fallen in. And so my child-
hood's magic retreat is now rubble.
I must have been staring too obviously at the ceiling, for the
Bishop suddenly asked me, "What is the most important of our
Lord's teachings .~"
Without thinking, I said, "Thou shalt not kill." I then rapidly
quoted every relevant text from the new testament (much of
which I knew by heart) and all that I could remember from the
old. The Bishop had not expected this response. But he nodded
appreciatively. "You have quoted well. But why do you think this
commandment the most important .~"
"Because had it been obeyed my father would be alive." I
startled myself with the quickness of my own retort.
The Bishop's pale face was even ashier than usual. "Why do
you say this ?"
"Because it's true. The Emperor killed my father. Everybody
knows that. And I suppose he shall kill Gallus and me, too, when
he gets around to it." Boldness, once begun, is hard to check.
"The Emperor is a holy man," said the Bishop severely. "All the
world admires his piety, his war against heresy, his support of the
true faith."
This made me even more reckless. "Then if he is such a good
Christian how could he kill so many members of his own family ?
After all, isn't it written in Matthew and again in Luke that..."
"You little fool!" The Bishop was furious. "Who has been tell-
ing you these things ? Mardonius ?"
I had sense enough to protect my tutor. "No, Bishop. But people
talk about everything in front of us. I suppose they think we don't
understand. Anyway it's all true, isn't it.~"
The Bishop had regained his composure. His answer was slow
and grim. "All that you need to know is that your cousin, the
Emperor, is a devout and good man, and never forget that you are
at his mercy." The Bishop then made me recite for four hours, as
punishment for impudence. But the lesson I learned was not the
one intended. All that I understood was that Constantius was a
devout Christian. Yet he had killed his own flesh and blood. There-
fore, if he could be both a good Christian and a murderer, then
there was something wrong with his religion. Needless to say, I
no longer blame Constantius's faith for his misdeeds, any more
than Hellenism should be held responsible for my shortcomings!

[2~]


Ne
hin
Au
CI~
cot
de~

Yet for a child this sort of harsh contradiction is disturbing, and
not easily forgotten.
In the year 34o Eusebius was made bishop of Constantinople.
As a result, Gallus and I divided our time between Nicomedia and
the capital. Of the two, I preferred Constantinople.
Founded the year before I was born, Constantinople has no past;
only a noisy present and a splendid future, if the auguries are to
be believed. Constantine deliberately chose ancient Byzantium to
be the capital of the Roman Empire, and then he created a new
city in place of the old, and ~named the result - with characteristic
modesty - after himself. Like most children of the city I delight in
its vitality and raw newness. The air is always full of dust and the
smell of mortar. The streets are loud with hammering. This con-
fusion should be unpleasant, but it is invigorating. From day to day
the city changes. Nearly all the familiar sights of my youth have
been replaced by new buildings, new streets, new vistas, and I find
it a marvellous thing to be -if only in this- at the beginning of
something great rather than at the end.
In good weather, Mardonius used to take Gallus and me on
walks around the city. "Statue hunts" we called them, because
Mardonius was passionately interested in works of art and he
would drag us from one end of the city to the other to look for
them. I think we must have seen all ten thousand of the bronze
and marble statues Constantine had stolen from every part of the
world to decorate his city. Though one cannot approve his thefts
(particularly those from Hellenic temples), the result has been that
in and around the various arcades along Middle Street, the city's
main thoroughfare, there are more important works of art than
anywhere on earth, excepting Rome.
One of our expeditions took us to a Galilean charnel house, close
by the Hippodrome. While Mardonius fussed with a map of the
city, trying to get his bearings, Gallus and I threw bits of marble
at a half-finished house across the street. There are always a satisfy-
ing number of things for a child to throw in the streets of Con-
stantinople, chips of marble, splinters of wood, broken tile. The
builders never clean up.
"Now here," said Mardonius, peering closely at the map, "should
be the famous Nemesis of Pheidias acquired some years ago by the
divine Constantine, and thought to be the original, though there
are those who maintain it is a copy, but a copy made in the same
century, in Parian marble, hence not Roman, hence not corrupt."

[22]


Suddenly the door to the charnel house was flung open and two
old men ran out into the street, closely pursued by a dozen monks,
armed with sticks. The old men got as far as the arcade where we
were standing. Then the monks caught them, threw them to the
ground and beat them, shouting all the while, "Heretic ! Heretic !"
I turned with amazement to Mardonius. "Why are they hurting
those men ?"
Mardonius sighed. "Because they are heretics."
"Dirty Athanasians?" Gallus, older than I, was already
acquainted with most of our new world's superstitions."I'm afraid so. We'd better go."
But I was curious. I wanted to know what an Athanasian was.
"Misguided fools who believe that Jesus and God are exactly the
same . . .
"When everybody knows they are only similar," said Gallus.
"Exactly. As Bishop Arius -who was so much admired by your
cousin the divine Emperor- taught us."
"They poisoned Bishop Arius," said Gallus, already fiercely
partisan. He picked up a rock. "Murdering heretics!" he yelled
and hurled the stone with unfortunate accuracy at one of the old
men. The monks paused in their congenial work to praise Gallus's
marksmanship. Mardonius was furious, but only on grounds of
rectitude.
"Gallus !" He gave my brother a good shake. "You are a prince,
not a street brawler!" Grabbing us each firmly by an arm, Mar-
donius hurried us away. Needless to say, I was fascinated by all
this.
"But surely those old men are harmless."
"Harmless ? They murdered Bishop Arius." Gallus's eyes shone
with righteousness.
"Those two? They actually murdered him?"
"No," said Mardonius. "But they are followers of Bishop
Athanasius . . ."
"The worst heretic that ever lived!" Gallus was always ecstatic
when his own need for violence coincided with what others
believed to be right action.
"And it is thought that Athanasius ordered Arius poisoned at a
church council, some seven years ago. As a result, Athanasius was
sent into exile by your divine uncle. And now, Julian, I must re-
mind you for what is the hundredth -or is it the thousandth ? -
time, not to bite your nails."

[23]


I stopped biting my nails, a habit which I have not entirely
broken myself of even today. "But aren't they all Christians.~" I
asked. "Don't they believe in Jesus and the gospels ?""No!" said Gallus.
"Yes," said Mardonius. "They are Christians, too. But they are
in error."
Even as a child I had a reasonably logical mind. "But if they are
Christians, like us, then we must not fight them but turn the other
cheek, and certainly nobody must kill anybody, because Jesus tells
us that . . ."
"I'm afraid it is not as simple as all that," said Mardonius. But of
course it was. Even a child could see the division between what the
Galileans say they believe and what, in fact, they do believe, as
demonstrated by their actions. A religion of brotherhood and mild-
ness which daily murders those who disagree with its doctrines
can only be thought hypocrite, or worse. Now for the purposes of
my memoir it would be convenient to say that at this moment I
ceased to be a Galilean. But unfortunately that would not be true.
Though I was puzzled by what I had seen, I still believed, and my
liberation from the Nazarene was a long time coming. But looking
back, I suspect that the first chain was struck from my mind that
day in the street when I saw two harmless old men set upon by
monks.

In the summer I used to go to my maternal grandmother's estate
in Bithynia. It was a small farm two miles from the sea. Just back
of the house was a low hill from whose top there was a fine view
of the sea of Marmora, while on the horizon's farthest curve to
the north rose the towers of Constantinople. Here I spent many
hours, reading and dreaming.
One afternoon, lulled by the murmuring of bees, the scent of
thyme, the warm salt4aden air, I fell asleep and dreamed that I
was having some sort of quarrel with Gallus. I wanted to escape
him. So I began to run. As I ran, I took longer and longer steps
until I began to 'bound like a deer. With each leap, I remained
higher in the air until at last I was gliding over the countryside
while the people below stared with wonder as I sailed over their
heads, completely free. There is no dream quite so satisfying as
the one of flying.
Suddenly in my pleasant voyage, I was aware that someone

[24]


was calling my name. I looked about me but there was no one in
sight, only pale clouds, blue sky, dark sea. I was gliding over the
Marmora, towards Constantinople, when the voice sounded again.
"Who wants me ?" I asked.
Then- I don't know how-but I realized that it was the sun
who had spoken. Huge and gold above the city, the sun reached
out fiery arms to me. And with an astonishingly poignant sense
of coming home, I plunged straight into the blazing light. And
awakened to find that the setting sun was indeed shining in my
face. Dazzled, I got to my feet. I had been overwhelmed by light.
I was also bewildered. Something important had happened. But
what ?
I told no one about this vision. However, some months later
when Mardonius and I were alone together in the palace gardens
overlooking the Bosphorus, I questioned him about the old religion.
I began slyly: was everything Homer wrote true ?"Of course ! Every word !"
"Then Zeus and Apollo and all the other gods must exist, be-
cause he says they do. And if they are real, then what became of
them ? Did Jesus destroy them ?"
Poor Mardonius! He was a devoted classicist. He was also a
Galilean. Like so many in those days, he was hopelessly divided.
But he had his answer ready. "You must remember that Christ was
not born when Homer lived. Wise as Homer was, there was no
way for him to know the ultimate truth that we know. So he was
forced to deal with the gods the people had always believed
in..."
"False gods, according to Jesus, so if they're false then what
Homer writes about them can't be true."
"Yet like all things, those gods are manifestations of the true."
Mardonius shifted his ground. "Homer believed much as we
believe. He worshipped the One God, the single principle of the
universe. And I suspect he was aware that the One God can take
many forms, and that the gods of Olympus are among them. After
all, to this day God has many names because we have many
languages and traditions, yet he is always the same."
"What are some of the old names ?"
"Zeus, Helios the sun, Serapis . . ."
"The sun." My deity. "Apollo . . ." I began.
"Apollo also had many names, Helios, Companion of Mith-
ras . . .

[25]


Net
him
Au~
Cla
COlT
der

"Apollo, Helios, Mithras," I repeated softly. From where we
sat in the shady grove on the slope beneath the Daphne Palace, I
could just catch a glimpse of my deity, impaled on the dark green
bough of a cypress.
"Mithraism was most devilish of all the cults. In fact, there are
still some active Mithraists, soldiers mostly, ignorant folk, though
a few philosophers (or would-be philosophers) are drawn to
Mithras, like Iamblichos . . . I met him once, a remarkably ugly
man, a Syrian, from Chalci$, I think, he died a few years ago, much
admired by a small circle, but I've always thought his prose un-
reasonably obscure. He pretended to be a disciple of Plato. And of
course he maintained that Jesus was a false prophet and our trinity
absurd. Then- utter madness- he invented a trinity of his own,
based on Plato."
Carried away by his passion to explain, Mardonius was now
hardly conscious of his rapt listener who understood perhaps every
other word he spoke. Yet the general sense of what was being said
was perfectly clear: Helios was an aspect of the One God, and
there were those, like this mysterious Iamblichos, who still wor-
shipped him.
"According to Iamblichos, there are three worlds, three realms
of being, each presided over by the One God whose visible aspect
is the sun. Now the first of these worlds is the inteIIi9ible world,
which can be comprehended only by reason. You'll find all this in
Plato, when we get to him, if you get to him at your present rate.
The second world is an intermediary one (this is Iamblichos's
invention); a world endowed with intelligence and governed by
Helios-Mithras, with a number of assistants who turn out to be
the old gods in various disguises, particularly Serapis to whom our
souls return after death, Dionysos the fair, Hermes the intelligence
of the universe, and Asklepios who actually lived, we think, and
was a famous physican, worshipped by our ancestors as a saviour
and healer."
"Like Jesus ?"
"Somewhat similar, yes. Finally, the third world is our world,
the world of sense and perception. Between the three worlds, the
sun mediates. Light is good; darkness evil; and Mithras is the bridge,
the link, between man and deity, light and dark. As you can see-
or as you will see - only part of this comes from Plato. Most of it
is Persian in origin, based on a Persian hero named Mithras who
lived, if he lived, a thousand years ago. Fortunately, with the birth

[26]


of Jesus and the mystery of the trinity all this nonsense ended."
"But the sun still exists."
"To be absolutely precise, at this moment the sun does not
exist." Mardonius rose. "It's set and we're late for supper."
That is how I became aware of the One God. In a dream Helios-
Mithras had called out to me and I had beheld, literally, the light.
From that day on, I was no longer alone. The sun was my protector.
I must say that during those years I needed all the solace I could
get for I was continually haunted by my predicament. Would I be
put to death like my father ? One of my recurrent daydreams was
that Constantius and I would meet, quite by chance, on my grand-
mother's hill. In the dream the Emperor was always alone. He was
stern but kind. We spoke of literature. He was delighted at my
vast knowledge (I liked being praised for my reading). Then we
became close friends, and the dream would end with him granting
me my freedom to live out the rest of my life on my grandmotheFs
farm, for one look into my eyes had convinced him that I was not
worldly, that I wanted neither his throne nor revenge upon him
for my father's death. Time and again in my imagination I would
convince him with brilliant argument and he would invariably
grant my wish, tears in his eyes at my sincerity and lack of guile.
How curious men are! I was indeed sincere at that time. I was
exactly as I have described myself. I did not want power, or so
I thought. I truly believed that I wanted to live obscurely. And
then ? I broke Constantius. I took the throne. Knowing this now,
were I Constantius and he that dreamy boy on a Bithynian hill,
I would have had that young philosopher's life on the spot. But
then neither of us realized who I was, or what I would become.

[27]


hi,

C O l
d~

When I was eleven years old, my life again changed abruptly.
One morning in May I was doing lessons with Mardonius. I was
reciting Hesiod and making a good many mistakes, when Gallus
came into the room.
"He's dead. The Bishop's dead. In the church. He died. Just like
that !"
Mardonius drew a cross on his chest; so did I. A moment later
we were joined by clergy, officials, servants. Everyone was
stunned, and alarmed, for it is a great event when the bishop of
Constantinople dies, and who succeeds him is a matter of national
importance. The emperor- if he is Galilean- always has a hand
in the choosing of a successor. But Constantius was a thousand
miles away, on the borders of Persia. So for several weeks no
bishop was appointed, and no. one knew what to do with Gallus
and me. Luckily, my uncle Count Julian was in the city, and the
day after the funeral he came to see us.
"He's going to kill us, isn't he?" Under stress, Gallus could be
reckless.
Count Julian's smile was not very convincing. "Certainly not.
After all, you are the heirs of Constantine the Great."
"So was our father," said Gallus grimly. "And all the
others."
"But the divine Augustus is your friend."
"Then why are we under arrest ?" Gallus indicated the secret
police who had arrived only that day; when Gallus and I had
tried to go out, we were told politely to stay where we were "until
further orders".
"They are for your protection."
"The only protection we need is from Constantius," said Gallus;
but he lowered his voice. Though hot-tempered, he was not
suicidal. Count Julian looked very nervous.
"That is not true, Gallus. Now listen to me carefully. Someone
close to the Emperor, very close, has told me that Constantius
believes that the reason he cannot have children is because he-
because so many members of his own family were - because they,
ah, died !"

[28]


"Yes, but since he's already committed enough murders to get
him into hell, why stop at us ? He has nothing to lose."
"Nothing to gain, either. After all, you are only children."
Gallus snorted. At sixteen he was physically a man, though in
character he was still a child, a fierce destructive child.
"Believe me, you are safe." Count Julian was soothing. He was
in an excellent mood, for he had just been appointed governor
of Egypt, and I am afraid that was more on his mind than the
fate of his nephews. But he did his best to comfort us, for which
I at least was grateful. He left us with the hollow words, "You
have nothing to fear."
When he was gone, Gallus deliberately smashed the cup he had
used. Breaking things always gave Gallus physical relief; shatter-
ing this p-articular cup took on ritual significance. "He's like all
the rest!" Gallus's voice cracked with anger as he stood there in
the bright sun of a green May day, his long pale hair tangled
across his brow, his startling blue eyes magnified with sudden
tears. "There's no way out of this!"
I tried to say something hopeful but he rounded on me. "You're
no loss, you little ape! But why do I have to die? Why indeed?
Everyone asks himself that question sooner or later. No one can
ever love us quite so much as we love ourselves. Gallus saw no
justice in a world where a beauty and vitality such as his could
be pinched out as casually as a lamp wick. Of course fate is cruel.
But children cannot accept this, nor men like Gallus who see all
things as incidental to themselves. I loved Gallus. I hated him.
During the first years of my life I was so entirely absorbed by him
that I was hardly aware of myself at all except as I was reflected
in those vivid blue eyes, which saw nothing of me nor much of
anything else.
But Count Julian was right. Constantius did suffer remorse for
his crimes. We were safe, for the time being. In due course a
message arrived from the Chamberlain Eusebius. Gallus and I
were to be sent to Macellum in Cappadocia "to continue your
education".
"Education for what?" asked Gallus when this message had
been read us. But Mardonius silenced him. "The Augustus is merci-
ful. Never forget that he is now your father as well as your lord."
We departed for Macellum that same day. I was most upset,
for Mardonius was not to accompany us. I don't know the motive
behind this act of petty cruelty except that as the Chamberlain

[29]


Eusebius was also a eunuch he might have thought that a fellow
eunuch would prove to be too subtle an ally for us. Sniffling
wretchedly, I was bundled into a wagon with Gallus.
Mardonius was also grief-stricken but he controlled himself.
"We shall meet again," he said. "And when we do, I shall expect
Gallus to know as much Hesiod as Julian." Mardonius stood stiffly
in front of the bishop's palace as we drove off, escorted by a cohort
of cavalry, just as if we were important princes, which we were,
or important prisoners, which we also were. I sobbed. Gallus swore
fierce oaths under his breath. In the street a crowd of people were
gathered, eager for a glimpse of us. To get a close view one bold
burgher thrust his head over the side of the wagon. Gallus
promptly spat in the man's astonished face. Then Gallus covered
his head with his cloak and would not take it off until we were
outside the city gate. No one expected to see us alive again.
All travellers agree that Macellum is one of the beautiful places
of the world. I hate it to this day. Macellum is not a town but
an imperial residence originally used by the ancient Cappadocian
kings as a hunting lodge. Constantine enlarged it so that it is now
a complex of many buildings set in lonely woods at the foot of
Mount Argaeus, some four hundred miles south-east of Constan-
tinople. When Constantius inherited the principate, he acquired
the lodge, along with a number of other properties in the neigh-
bourhood; in fact, our family's private income derives almost
entirely from the Cappadocian crown lands.
Tonight when I was telling Priscus about my childhood, he said
that it sounded enviable. "After all, you lived in a palace, with
gardens, baths, fountains, a private chapel," he enjoys teasing me,
"in the very best hunting country with nothing to do but read.
You had the perfect life." Well, it was not perfect. Gallus and I
might just as well have been hostages in a Persian prison. We had
no one to talk to, except for a series of schoolmasters from near-
by Caesarea. None stayed with us very long because of Gallus. He
could not resist tormenting them. He got on better with our
jailers, particularly the young officers. Gallus could be very win-
ning when he wanted to be, and he soon had them training him in
the use of sword and spear, shield and axe. Gallus was a natural
athlete, with a gift for weaponry. I would have liked to practise
with him but he preferred to keep his military companions to
himself. "You read your books," he said sharply. "I'm the one
who's to be a soldier." $o I read my books.


We were nominally in the charge of Bishop George of Cappa-
docia who lived at Caesarea. He visited us at least once a month,
and it was he who insisted that our education be essentially
Galilean. "Because there is no reason why you should not be a
priest." He pointed a long finger at me. He was a small thin man
whose lean face always looked in need of shaving.
While I was respectfully trying to think of a number of reasons
why I should not become a priest, Gallus with an engaging smile
said, "Julian dreams of the priesthood, Bishop. It's his whole life.
He does nothing but read."
"I was that way myself at your age." Bishop George looked
pleased at finding this likeness.
"But I read philosophy . . ." I began.
"So do we all, of course. But then we come to the story of Jesus
which is the beginning and the end of knowledge. But I am sure
you have had a good training already from your late cousin, my
old friend, the Bishop Eusebius. Those of us who are true Christians
miss him greatly." Bishop George began to pace up and down the
room, snapping his fingers, a characteristic habit. Gallus grinned
at me, very pleased with what he had done.
Bishop George suddenly spun round; the long finger was again
pointed at me.
"Homoiousios. What does that mean ?"
I knew. I rattled my answer like a crow taught to speak. "It
means that Jesus the son is of similar substance to God the father."
"Homoousios. What does that mean ?"
"That Jesus the son is of one substance with God the father."
"The difference ?"
"In the first case, Jesus was created by the father before this
world began. He is God's son by grace but not by nature."
"Why ?"
"Because God is one. By definition singular. God cannot be
many, as the late Bishop Arius maintained at the council of
Nicaea."
"Excellent." I received a series of finger-snappings as applause.
"Now in the second case ?"
"Homoousios is that pernicious doctrine"-I had been well-
drilled by old Eusebius- "which maintains that the father and
the son and the holy spirit are one and the same.""Which cannot be!"
"Which cannot be," I chirruped obediently.


"Despite what happened at Nicaea."
"Where in the year 325 Bishop Athanasius of Alexandria..."
"A mere deacon at the time . . ."
"Opposed my cousin Bishop Eusebius as well as Bishop Axius,
and forced the council to accept the Athanasian doctrine that the
father, son and holy spirit are one."
"But the battle is far from over. We are gaining ground every
year. Our wise Augustus believes as we believe, as the late Bishop
Arius believed. Two years ago at Antioch we Eastern bishops met
to support the true doctrine. This year we shall meet again at
Sardica and, with the Emperor's aid, the true believers shall once
and for all destroy the doctrine of Athanasius. My son, you are
to be a priest. I can tell. You have the mark. You will be a great
force in the church. Tomorrow I shall send you one of my deacons.
He will give you religious instruction, both of you.""But I'm to be a soldier," said Gallus, alarmed.
"A God-fearing soldier has the strength of twenty," said Bishop
George automatically. "Besides, religious training will do you no
harm." And curiously enough, it was Gallus who became the
devout Galilean while I, as the world knows, returned to the old
ways.
But at that time I was hardly a philosopher. I studied what I was
told to study. The deacon who gave me instruction was most com-
plimentary. "You have an extraordinary gift for analysis," he
said one day when I was exploring with him John ~4:2~, the text
on which the Arians base their case against the Athanasians. "You
will have a distinguished future, I am sure.""As a bishop ?"
"Of course you will be a bishop since you are imperial. But
there is something even more splendid than a bishop.""A martyr ?"
"Martyr and saint. You have the look of one."
I must say my boyish vanity was piqued. Largely because of
this flattery, for several months I was confident that I had been
especially chosen to save the world from error. Which, in a way,
turned out to be true, to the horror of my early teachers.
Bishop George was an arrogant and difficult man but I got on
with him, largely because he was interested in me. He was a
devoted controversialist. Finding me passably intelligent, he saw
his opportunity. If I could be turned into a bishop, I would be a
powerful ally for the Arians, who were already outnumbered by

[32]


the Athanasians, despite the considerable help given them by
Constantius. Today, of course, the "pernicious" doctrine of the
three-in-one God has almost entirely prevailed, due to the efforts
of Bishop Athanasius. Constantius alone kept the two parties in
any sort of balance. Now that he is dead the victory of the
Athanasians is only a matter of time. But today none of this
matters since the Galileans are now but one of a number of re-
ligious sects, and by no means the largest. Their days of domina-
tion are over. Not only have I forbidden them to persecute us
Hellenists; I have forbidden them to persecute one another. They
find me intolerably cruel!
Was I a true Galilean in those years at Macellum ? There has
been much speculation about this. I often wonder myself. The
answer is not clear even to me. For a long time I believed what
I was taught. I accepted the Arian thesis that the One God (whose
existence we all accept) mysteriously produced a sort of son who
was born a Jew, became a teacher, and was finally executed by
the state for reasons which were never entirely clear to me,
despite the best efforts of Bishop George to instruct me. But
while I was studying the life of the Galilean I was also read-
ing Plato, who was far more to my taste. After all, I was some-
thing of a literary snob. I had been taught the best Greek by
Mardonius. I could not help but compare the barbarous back-
country language of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John to the clear
prose of Plato. Yet I accepted the Galilean legend as truth. After
all, it was the religion of my family, and though I did not find
it attractive I was unaware of any alternative until one after-
noon when I was about fourteen. I had been sitting for two hours
listening to the deacon sing me the songs of Bishop Arius . . .
yes, that great religious thinker wrote popular songs in order to
influence the illiterate. To this day I can recall the words of half
a dozen of his inane ballads which "proved" that the son was the
son and the father was the father. Finally, the deacon finished; I
praised his singing.
"It is the spirit which matters, not the voice," said the deacon,
pleased with my compliment. Then- I don't know how it hal>
pened-Plotinus was mentioned. He was only a name to me. He
was anathema to the deacon. "A would-be philosopher of the last
century. A follower of Plato, or so he claimed. An enemy of the
church, though there are some Christians who are foolish enough
to regard him highly. He lived at Rome. He was a favourite of

[33]


Nhi
A~
C~

the Emperor Gordian. He wrote six quite unintelligible books
which his disciple Porphyry edited."
"Porphyry?" As though it were yesterday, I can remember
hearing that name for the first time, seated opposite the angular
deacon in one of the gardens at Macellum, high summer flower-
ing all about us and the day hazy with heat.
"Even worse than Plotinus! Porphyry came from Tyre. He
studied at Athens. He called himself a philosopher but of course
he was merely an atheist. He attacked the church in fifteen
volumes."
"On what grounds ?"
"How should I know ? I have never read his books. No Christian
ought." The deacon was firm.
"But surely this Porphyry must have had some cause . . ."
"The devil entered him. That is cause enough."
By then I knew that I must read Plotinus and Porphyry. I wrote
Bishop George a most politic letter, asking him to lend me the
books of these "incorrigible" men. I wished to see, I said, the
face of the enemy plain, and naturally I turned to the Bishop for
guidance, not only because he was my religious mentor but be-
cause he had the best library in Cappadocia. I rather laid it on.
To my astonishment Bishop George immediately sent me the
complete works of Plotinus as well as Porphyry's attack on Chris-
tianity. "Young as you are, I am sure that you will appreciate the
folly of Porphyry. He was an intelligent man misled by a bad
character. My predecessor, as bishop of Caesarea, wrote a splendid
refutation of Porphyry, answering for all time the so-called 'in-
consistencies' Porphyry claimed to have detected in scriptures.
I am sending you the Bishop's works, too. I cannot tell you how
pleased I am at the interest you are showing in sacred matters."
What the good Bishop did not know was that the arguments of
Porphyry were to form the basis for my own rejection of the
Nazarene.
That same summer, Bishop George suggested that Gallus and I
build a chapel at Macellum to be dedicated to Saint Mammas, a
local shepherd whose remains were considered particularly potent:
skin diseases were promptly cured by applying the saint's shin-
bone to the afflicted area. Bishop George thought it would be an
inspiring gesture if Gallus and I were to build a charnel house for
these scraps of dead shepherd. So all one summer Gallus and I
worked on this project. I enjoyed laying brick. But Gallus hated


prolonged effort of any kind, and I'm afraid he spent a good deal
of time cursing Saint Mammas as we sweated in the sun. Shortly
after we completed the chapel, the roof fell in. I am told that
the Galileans now say that only my section of the building col-
lapsed, because I was apostate. This is not true. The whole thing
collapsed- because of faulty design.
At that time I neither believed nor disbelieved. Yet Porphyry's
eloquent case against the Nazarene was now lodged in my head.
When I tried to argue doctrinal points with Bishop George, I was
swiftly discouraged with this sort of thing: "The very idea of the
trinity is a mystery. Only through faith can it be understood,
and then never entirely." I much preferred Plotinus, who four
times in five years achieved that total consciousness of the One
which is the ultimate goal of all religious practice. Despite
Porphyry's wisdom, he experienced this heightened consciousness
only once, at the age of sixty-eight. So far I have experienced it
twice. I pray each day for yet another revelation.

Gallus and I had neither friends nor allies. Except for his dogged
attempts to make me a priest, Bishop George showed no personal
interest in either of us. Everyone else at Macellum treated us with
nervous respect. We alarmed people; we reminded them of
murder; we were such obvious victims.
I kept to my reading. I took little exercise, though I was
naturally strong, particularly in the arms. Gallus continued to
surpass me at all games and physical feats. He was taller than I,
beautifully made, with the face of a god. The soldiers assigned
to guard us were infatuated with him, and he flirted shamelessly
with them. They took him hunting whenever he chose and I sup-
pose that he had affairs with some of them, though we were both
involved much of the time with the same girl - or rather woman.
She was the twenty-five-year-old wife of a civil servant who acted
as comptroller to our household. She seduced me first, then Gallus.
She was insatiable. Her husband was amenable; not that he had
any choice. He used to giggle uncontrollably whenever he saw
either of us. He was fat and small, and I remember asking her how
she could bear to be touched by him.
"He has gifts," she said slyly. I can still recall how her black
hair glistened as it fell over bare brown shoulders. Never before


hi
A
(:

or since have I felt such smooth skin. I suppose she oiled herself
but if she did she was an artist at it, for one's fingers never came
away thick with perfumed grease as happens so often with women
of her sort. She was Antiochene. What else ? Love-making is the
only art the people of Antioch have ever taken seriously. She
affected to find me attractive, but it was the golden Gallus who
really enchanted her. He used to tell me with pride how "she does
everything and I don't move". His passivity was baffling. But then
I never understood Gallus. Later when he turned monster, I was not
surprised. He could have been anything at all because at heart he
was nothing. Yet when he was in a room, all eyes watched him, for
he was physically fascinating; men and women were equally
attracted to him and since he felt nothing for anyone, every
woman saw him as a challenge who must be made to love. So
Gallus was able to take his pleasure as he chose . . . while hardly
moving !
The Syrian woman was mistress to us both for three years.
Though I am now cefi'~'ate, f'or~n
Where is she now? I don't dare inquire. She is probably fat and
old, living in some provincial town and paying youths to sleep
with her. But for a thousand days she was Aphrodite to my Adonis.

[36]


Five years passed. Little news of the outside world came to us.
Sapor, the Great King of Persia, threatened our Eastern border,
while the Germans infiltrated Gaul. That was all we knew. Politics
was a forbidden subject. I studied Homer and Hesiod; read Plotinus
and Porphyry; made love to the Antiochene; fought with Gallus,
until one day I out-wrestled him and he never challenged me again.
He was a coward except when he was in a rage; then he would do
anything.
As long as I could read, I was never entirely wretched. But I did
long to see more of the world than Macellum. It is most unnatural
for a youth to be brought up entirely by soldiers and slaves, none
of whom dares to be fond of him. Gallus and I had each other for
company but we were not true brothers in any but the family
sense- and only half-brothers at that, for we had different mothers.
We were like two potentially hostile animals in the same cage. Yet
I was ravished by his beauty, and impressed by his energy. Gallus
was always doing something which I wanted to imitate. Some-
times he let me, but more often not, for he enjoyed tormenting
me. It gave him particular pleasure to quarrel with me just before
we were to go hunting. Then he could exclaim, "All right! You
stay home. This is a day for men." And the soldiers would laugh at
me and I would flee while the exuberant Gallus would ride forth
to hunt, as dogs barked and horns sounded through the dark green
woods. But when I was allowed to go with him, I was close to
ecstasy.
One September afternoon Bishop George arrived unexpectedly
at Macellum. We had not seen him for some months, because,
according to the deacon, "It looks as though- now don't repeat
a word of this!" (as if we two prisoners had anyone to confide
in)-"Bishop George will be raised to the see of Alexandria.
Bishop Athanasius holds Alexandria only because the Emperor
Constans of the West insisted upon it. But now the Emperor Con-
stantius is arranging for Athanasius to be exiled again and if he is,
we go to Alexandria!" The deacon was exalted at the thought.
But Bishop George said nothing to us about church politics when
we joined him in the main hall of the hunting lodge. He had other,

[~7]


greater news. His sallow face was dark with excitement while his
fingers snapped a sharp continuous accompaniment to his words.
"The divine Augustus will visit you in ten days' time. He is on
his way home from Antioch. He is making this side trip for the
express purpose of seeing the two of you." I was too frightened to
speak. It was Gallus who asked, "What does he want ?"
The Bishop was impatient. "He is your cousin. Your guardian.
Your emperor. He wants to see you. What else ? To see what sort
of men you've grown into. To see the result of our education.
Now he will be particularly interested in your religious training.
Therefore, I shall stay here until he arrives. We will review every-
thing I have tried to teach you. This will mean, Gallus, a great deal
of work for you. I suggest you put your mind to it, since your
entire future may depend on the impression you make." And so
does yours, Bishop, I remember thinking to myself, eager to in-
clude anyone I could in what I was certain would prove to be a
harsh fate.
We studied hard. For hours on end the Bishop drilled us merci-
lessly. Fortunately I have an excellent memory and can learn-
though not always understand! -a page at a glance. Between
lessons, we tried to find out all that we could about Constantius's
mood. Was he favourably disposed towards us ? Were we to re-
main at Macellum? But the Bishop gave us no comfort. "The
divine Augustus will do what is best, as he always does. You have
nothing to fear, if you are loyal and obedient." But of course we
had everything to fear. I did not sleep one night through during
that time of waiting.
The day before Constantius was due to arrive, the imperial
court came to Macellum. Some of the court had been with Con-
stantius at Antioch; but most came directly from the Sacred Palace
at Constantinople. All the chief officers of the state were to be
lodged in the villa, while in the surrounding fields a hundred tents
were pitched to accommodate the thousand clerks and notaries
who conduct the business of the government.
At dawn the pageant began. Gallus and I stationed ourselves in
the courtyard of the palace and gaped like two bumpkins. Neither
of us had ever seen an imperial progress before, and in the general
excitement and dazzle of that frosty autumn day we momentarily
forgot our terror.
Bishop George stood in the doorway of the villa. He wore a
jewelled chasuble, and held a silver crosier in one hand. To his

[383


left and right the military garrison of Macellum stood at attention
to honour the great magnates of the Roman Empire. Some arrived
on horseback, others in litters. Each was accompanied by a retinue
of soldiers, clerks, eunuchs, slaves. All wore some variation of
military dress, for ever since Diocletian the court has been military
in its appearance, symbolic of Rome's beleaguered state.
The courtyard was soon crowded with clerks and slaves, horses
and mules; only the area just in front of the door was kept clear.
After each official dismounted, he would cross to the doorway,
where Bishop George would then greet him with all his titles. The
Bishop was a master of protocol. He knew exactly who everyone
was and how he should be addressed, an enviable gift, since nowa-
days there are hundreds of subtle titles and distinctions. Highest in
rank are the clarissimi. They include the two consuls for the year,
all former consuls, the praetorian prefects, much of the senate.
Next are the officials who are called spectabiles. Then the heads of
government departments who are called illustres. But it is not easy
to keep straight who is what, since an important minister of state
like the quaestor (the emperor's legal adviser) is only an iIIustris,
while the governor of an insignificant province may be a clarissi-
mus. Also, the matter of the counts is confusing. In the old days,
"count" was simply a courtesy title for any official or high-ranking
officer who travelled in the emperor's entourage. But Constantine,
with his Persian sense of hierarchy, made the title "count" a
reward for important service. So some counts are clarissimi while
others are merely spectabiles. It is amazing how obsessed other-
wise sensible people are by these foolish titles. I have sat for
hours in the company of grown men who could discuss nothing
but who held what title and why he was unworthy of it. Yet a
wise emperor can exert considerable pressure on ambitious men
by the giving or withholding of these empty titles. Constantius
was a master at this sort of thing. Unfortunately, since I find it
hard to remember who is what, I call nearly everyone "my dear
fellow", in imitation of Plato. This scandalizes the dignified.
First to arrive was the Count of the Sacred Largesse. It is his
task to see that each province pays its taxes promptly on the first
of every March. He also administers the government's salt
monopoly and the provincial banks, as well as all state-owned
factories, mines, and of course the mint. He is never a popular
official, but he dies rich. He was followed by the Count of the
Privy Purse, who administers the personal property of the
[39]


imperial family. This official was accompanied by twenty slaves
carrying chests of dark wood studded with metal; they contained
the large sums of gold and silver the emperor must always travel
with. Since Privy Purse is responsible for every coin, he tends to be
a nervous, distracted figure, for ever counting boxes. Next, the
Count of the East, who governs Syria and Mesopotamia. Then the
Master of the Offices, a very great man indeed. He administers the
state transportation system and post; he is the head of the bureau
of secret agents; he commands the palace .guard; he arranges for
audiences with the Emperor. Bishop George bowed particularly
low to him.
For six years Gallus and I had seen no one except Bishop George
and our guards. Now all at once there passed before us the whole
power of the state. Our eyes were dazzled by glittering armour
and elaborate cloaks, by the din of a thousand clerks and notaries
who scurried about the courtyard, demanding their baggage,
quarrelling with one another, insisting on various prerogatives.
These noisy clerks with their inky fingers and proud intelligent
faces were the actual government of Rome, and they knew it.
The last official to arrive was the most important of all: the
Grand Chamberlain of the Sacred Palace, the eunuch Eusebius. He
was so large that it took two slaves to pull him out of his ivory
and gold litter. He was tall, stout and very white. Beneath the
peacock blue of his silk tunic one could see the rolls of flesh quiver
as he moved. Of all the officers of state, only he wore civilian
clothes. In fact, he looked like a winsome lady of fashion with
mouth artfully rouged and hair arranged in long oiled ringlets.
The gold thread of his cape flashed in the sunlight.
Eusebius looked about him with sharp eyes, and I knew sud-
denly that he was looking for us. Half hidden by a mound of
saddlebags, Gallus and I tried to become invisible, but though the
Chamberlain had never seen either of us before, he knew immedi-
ately who we were. Gracefully, he motioned for us to join him.
Like slaves anticipating a beating, we shuffled forward. Since we
were not certain as to how to greet him, I attempted a military
salute, which Gallus imitated. Eusebius smiled a tiny smile, expos-
ing small dark teeth; several babyish dimples appeared in his full
cheeks. He inclined his head; the neck fat creased; a long curl
strayed across his brow.
"Nobilissimi," he said in a soft voice. This was an excellent
omen. The title nobilissimus is used only for members of the

[~o]



imperial family. Bishop George never used this title with us nor
did our guards. Now, apparently, our rank had been restored.
After a long scrutiny, Eusebius took each of us by a hand. I
can still recall the soft dampness of his touch. "I have so looked
forward to seeing you both ! And how grown up you are ! Especi-
ally the noble Gallus." Delicately he felt Gallus's chest. This sort
of impertinence would ordinarily have sent my brother into a
rage, but that day he was far too frightened. He also knew in-
stinctively that his only protection was his beauty. Complaisantly
he allowed the eunuch to caress him as we entered the villa.
Eusebius had the most beguiling voice and manner of anyone I
have ever known. I should say something here about the voices
of eunuchs. Actors and other people who try to mimic them in-
variably tend to pitch their voices high, and screech. Eunuchs
seldom sound like that. If they did, who would ever find their
company tolerable ? And at a court one must be particularly
pleasing in one's manners. In actual fact, the voice of a eunuch is
like that of a particularly gentle child, and this appeals to the
parent in both men and women. Thus subtly do they disarm us, for
we tend to indulge them as we would a child, forgetting that
their minds are as mature and twisted as their bodies are lacking.
Eusebius spun his web about Gallus. He did not bother with me.
I was too young.
Gallus and Eusebius dined alone together that night. The next
day Gallus was Eusebius's devoted admirer. "He's also a friend?
said Gallus. We were alone together in the baths. "He told me
how he's been getting reports about me for years. He knows
everything I've ever done. He even knows about her." Gallus
named the Antiochene, and giggled. "Eusebius says I'll be a great
success at court. Not only am I good-looking but I have a well-
developed intelligence, those are his exact words. He's positive he
can talk the Emperor into letting me go free. He says it may take
a little time but that he has some small influence with His Eternity,
that's exactly how he put it. He's very interesting, though it's hard
sometimes to fig~ure out what he's talking about. He expects you to
know all sorts of things you wouldn't have any way of knowing,
buffed in this damned place. Anyway Constantius does iust as
Eusebius tells him. Everyone says so. Which means if you have
Eusebius on your side, that's half the battle. And I've got him."
"What did he say about me.~" I asked. Gallus seldom strayed
very far from his essential interest: himself.

[,~]


"You ? Why should he say anything about you ?" Gallus ducked
me in the cold pool. I pulled him in after me. He was slippery
as a fish, but I managed to hold his head under water for a satis-
factory length of time. At sixteen I was as strong as he was at
twenty-one. He emerged spluttering and blue in the face. "He's
going to make a monk out of you, that's what. Though if I have
anything to say about it, you'll be a eunuch." He tried to kick me
between the legs but slipped on the marble and fell. He cursed
loudly, and I laughed. Then we were joined by slaves who helped
us dress. Since Gallus was a man, the Master of the Offices had
ruled that although he was not technically an officer, he could on
this occasion wear the uniform of the household troops. Un-
fortunately, the nobilissimus Julian was merely a student and
must dress accordingly. As a result, I looked quite insignificant be-
side my glittering half-brother. But I was perfectly happy to go
unnoticed. Let Gallus shine. I preferred obscurity, and survival.
Constantius had arrived at noon and gone straight to his apart-
ments. That was all anyone knew. He might be with us in a few
minutes, a few hours, or not at all. Meanwhile, we waited
nervously in the great hall of the villa. The rafters were hung
with boughs of evergreen, and the ordinarily musty interior
smelled of pine and eucalyptus. At one end of the hall, on a dais,
a gold throne had been set. To the right of the throne, but at floor
level, was the ivory chair of the praetorian prefect of the East (he
had arrived with the Emperor). According to rank, the officers of
the state were arranged to the left and right of the throne. Just at
the foot of the dais stood Bishop George in all his glory with
Gallus on his right and me on his left.
Looking more than ever like a huge peacock, Eusebius stood at
the door, surrounded by his staff of ushers. No one spoke or moved.
We were like statues. Though the room was not hot, I was sweat-
ing nervously. I glanced at Gallus out of the comer of my eye; his
mouth was twitching from the strain.
After what seemed days, we heard trumpets. Then the cry
"Augustus !" which always precedes an emperor began, at first far
off and faint; then closer, louder: "Augustus! Augustus!" My legs
began to tremble. I was afraid I might be sick. Suddenly with a
crash the double doors were flung open and there in the doorway
stood Flavius Julius Constantius, Augustus of the East. With a
gentle moan, Eusebius embraced Constantius's knees, melodiously
murmuring soft words of ceremony not audible to the rest of us


who were now prostrate, as the Lord of the World slowly and
with extraordinary dignity crossed the room to his throne. I was
too busy studying the mosaic floor to get even a glimpse of my
imperial cousin. Not until the Master of the Offices gave the signal
for everyone to rise was I able at last to observe my father's
murderer.
Constantius was a man of overwhelming dignity. That was the
most remarkable thing about him; even his most ordinary gestures
seemed carefully rehearsed. Like the Emperor Augustus, he wore
lifts in his sandals to make himself appear tall. He was clean-
shaven, with large melancholy eyes. He had his father Constan-
tine's large nose and thin, somewhat peevish mouth. The upper
part of his body was impressively muscular but his legs were
dwarfish. He wore the purple, a heavy robe which hung
from shoulder to heel; on his head was a fillet of silver set with
pearls.
Constantius sat very still on his throne as the Master of the
Offices brought him Bishop George, who welcomed him to
Macellum. Not once did the Emperor look at Gallus or me. The
occasional ritual responses he made were said in such a low voice
that none of us could make out the words.
Then the moment came. Bishop George led Gallus and me to
the Master of the Offices, who in turn led us up to the dais and
presented us formally to the Emperor. I was terrified. Without
knowing how I got there, I found myself embracing Constantius's
knees, as court etiquette requires.
From far off I heard the Emperor's voice, measured but rather
higher-pitched than I had expected, "We are pleased to receive our
most noble cousin Julian." A large callused hand reached down,
gripped me firmly by the left elbow and helped me to rise.
For an instant I was so close to Constantius that I could make
out every pore in his face, which was sunburned dark as a
Persian's. I noticed the silkiness of his straight brown hair, only
iust beginning to turn grey. He was thirty-two, but I thought him
ancient. I also remember thinking: what must it be like to be
Emperor of Rome ? to know that one's face on coins, on monu-
ments, painted and sculptured, is known to all the world ? And
here- so close to me that I could feel the reciprocal warmth of
his skin- was the original of that world-famous face, not bronze
or marble but soft flesh and bone, like me, like any other man. And
I wondered: what is it like to be the centre of the world ?

[43]


For the first time I experienced ambition. It came as a revela-
tion. Only in communion with the One God have I known any-
thing to equal it. How candid I am! I have never admitted to
anyone that in my first encounter with Constantius, all that I could
think was how much I should like the dominion of this earth ! But
my moment of madness was brief. I stammered a speech of loyalty,
and took my place beside Gallus on the dais. I can remember
nothing else that happened that day.
Constantius remained at Macellum for a week. He attended to
the business of the state. He hunted. Bishop George had a long
interview with him on the day he arrived, but then, to the Bishop's
chagrin, Constantius ignored him. Though Gallus and I dined at
the Emperor's table every evening, he never spoke to us.
I was beginning to fear the worst. But Gallus, who saw Eusebius
every day, said that the eunuch was optimistic. "He's positive we'll
be allowed to come to court this year. At least I will. He also said
there was talk in the Sacred Consistory that I be made Caesar for
the East." Gallus glowed with excitement. "Then I could live at
Antioch. I'd have my own court. After all, it's what one was born
for !"
Gallus made a good impression on everyone - somewhat to my
surprise, for he was always rather sullen with Bishop George and
downright cruel to me and his teachers. But set among the great
officers of the state, he was a different person. He laughed; he
flattered; he charmed. He was a natural courtier, and one by one
he enchanted the members of the Sacred Consistory, as the
Emperor's council is known. Only with Constantius did he make
no headway. Our cousin was biding his time.
During the time the court was at Macellum, the junior officers
and lesser officials dined in the main hall of the palace, while the
Emperor and the magnates dined in the banqueting hall, which was
somewhat smaller. In the hour before dinner everyone used to
gather in the main hall to gossip. It was our first experience of a
court. I found it bewildering, but Gallus took to it like a swan to
water.
One evening Gallus allowed me to tag after him as he moved
through that splendid company. Gallus was an excellent politician.
He made friends not just with the magnates but also with the
clerks and notaries who do the actual work of governing. He was
shrewd. I of course was perfectly tongue-tied.
In the large hall, Gallus quickly gravitated to the group of

[~]


officers with whom he had only that day gone hunting. I remem-
ber looking at these young men with wonder, for they had actually
killed other men in battle in such far-away places as Germany and
Mesopotamia. They were unusually self-contained and rather
quiet, unlike the clerks and notaries, who were exceedingly talka-
tive, eager to impress one with their knowledge of secret matters.
Gallus seemed particularly to like one tribune, an officer in his
thirties named Victor (who is now one of my generals). Victor
was - is - an impressive-looking man who speaks good Greek,
though he comes from the Black Sea; he is bandy-legged and pale-
eyed like so many Russians. "Is this the most noble Julian.~" he
asked, turning to me.
Gallus introduced me in an offhand way to the company. I
blushed and said nothing.
"Will you be serving with us in the household troops ?" Victor
asked.
Gallus answered for me. "No. He's going to be a priest."
Before I could deny this, Victor said quite seriously, "I can
think of no life worthier than one in the service of God." I was
struck by the simplicity with which he said this. No irony was
intended.
Gallus was somewhat taken aback. "Not for me," he said finally.
"Nor for me, unfortunately." Victor gave me a sympathetic
smile. "You must pray for us," he said.
Gallus changed the subject. While he talked hunting with
Victor, I stood by silently, beginning to feel already like one of
those Galilean monks or "solitaries" as they are called, which is
rather a misnomer since no monk is ever solitary. They are the
most gregarious set of men in the world, for ever eating~ guzzling
and gossiping with one another. Most of them retire from the
world in order to have a continuous party.
"Are you really going to become a priest ?" The voice was low.
I turned and saw a young man standing behind me. He had
obviously been there for some time. I shook my head. "No," I said.
"Good." He smiled. He had sharp grey eyes beneath brows
which met, giving him the look of one continually concentrating
on some distant object. He wore civilian clothes, which was odd
since at his age anyone of good family wears uniform at court.
"Who are you ?" I asked.
"Oribasius of Pergamon, physician to the divine Augustus, who
doesn't need me. Your cousin is the healthiest man I've ever met."

[4~]


"I am happy to hear that!" I blazed sincerity. One's neck de-
pended on this sort of response.
"It's a matter of diet," said Oribasius matter-of-factly. "He's a
perfect example of the moderate life. He drinks almost no wine.
He never overeats. He'll live for ever."
"I pray that he does," I said, my heart sinking. What would my
life be like, lived in the shadow of a never<lying, always suspicious
Constantius ?
"But why does your brother say you're going to be a priest ?"
"Because I read books. He finds that strange."
"And he associates strangeness with the priesthood ?"
I tried not to smile. "Something like that. But I should like to
be a philosopher or a rhetorician. Apparently I have no gift for
soldiering. At least Gallus says I haven't. But then, everything
depends on the will of the divine Augustus."
"Yes," said Oribasius. He looked at me curiously. I recognized
the look. I had seen it all my life. It meant: Are they going to kill
this boy ? And if they do, how interesting it all is! From birth I
had been treated like a character in a tragic play."Do you like Macellum ?"
"Would you, if you were me ?" I had not meant to say this.
But his look had irritated me and I suddenly rebelled at being
treated like a mere thing, a victim, the dumb sacrifice in a bloody
legend.
"No," said Oribasius evenly. "I would not."
"Well, then, you know how it is." But frightened now that I
had said too much, I began to babble about the goodness of my
cousin, the kindness of Bishop George, the beauty of Cappadocia.
For all I knew, Oribasius was a secret agent. Luckily, one of the
chamberlains came to announce the approach of the Emperor, and
I hurriedly left the main hall and took my place at table.
I have recorded this meeting with Oribasius, since he was to be-
come my closest friend. But I did not see him again at Macellum
or, if I did, I don't remember him. He has told me since, "I've never
seen anyone look so frightened as you."
When I told him that my memory of myself in those days was
one of serene self-control, Oribasius laughed. "I was positive you
were on the verge of madness. I even diagnosed you - incorrectly
- as an epileptic."
"And what did you think of Gallus ?"
"He was the one who appeared serene. I was quite impressed."

[46]


"And of course Gallus went mad."
"I don't claim to be infallible."
People never make the impression they think they make. But
Oribasius was quite right in one thing: I was terrified.

My interview with Constantius occurred on the last day of his
visit. Bishop George spent the morning coaching us in what to say.
He was as nervous as we were; his career was at stake, too.
Gallus was admitted first to the sacred presence. During the half-
hour he was with the Emperor, I recall praying to every deity I
could think of; even then I was eclectic!
At last the Master of the Offices, gorgeous in court robes, came
to fetch me. He looked like an executioner. Bishop George rattled
out a blessing. The Master gave me instructions in how I was to
salute the Emperor and which formula of greeting I was to use. I
muttered them over and over to myself as I swam-that was my
exact sensation - into the presence of the Augustus.
Constantius was seated on an ordinary chair in the apse of the
hall. Eusebius stood beside him, holding a sheaf of documents. On
a stool at Constantius's feet sat Gallus, looking well-pleased with
himself.
I went through the formula of homage, the words falling with-
out thought from my lips. Constantius gave me a long, shrewd,
curious look. Then he did not look at me again during the course
of the interview. He was one of those men who could never look
another in the eye. Nor should this characteristic be taken, neces-
sarily, as a sign of weakness or bad conscience. I am rather like
Constantius in this. I have always had difficulty looking into men's
eyes. All rulers must. Why ? Because of what we see: self-interest,
greed, fear. It is not a pleasant sensation to know that merely by
existing one inspires animal terror in others. Constantius was often
evil in his actions but he took no pleasure in the pain of others. He
was not a Caligula, nor a Gallus.
Constantius spoke to me rapidly and impersonally. "We have
received heartening reports concerning the education of our most
noble cousin Julian. Bishop George tells us that it is your wish to
prepare for the priesthood." He paused, not so much to hear what
I might say as to give proper weight to what he intended to say
next. As it was, I was speechless.
Constantius continued, "You must know that your desire to

[47]


serve God is pleasing to us. It is not usual for princes to remove
themselves from the world, but then it is not usual for any man
to be called by heaven." I suddenly saw with perfect clarity the
prison I was to occupy. Deftly, Constantius spun his web. No
priest could threaten him. I would be a priest. "Bishop George tells
me that you have pondered deeply the disputes which- sadly-
divide holy church. And he assures me that in your study of sacred
matters you have seen the truth and believe, as all Christians
ought, that the son is of like substance to the father, though not of
the same substance. Naturally, as one of our family, you may not
live as an ordinary holy man; responsibilities will be thrust upon
you. For this reason your education must be continued at Con-
stantinople. You are already a reader in the church. In Constanti-
nople you can hope to become ordained, which will give us
pleasure, as well as making you most pleasing to God who has
summoned you to serve him. And so we salute our cousin and find
him a worthy descendant of Claudius Gothicus, the founder of
our house." That was all. Constantius gave me his hand to kiss. 1
never said a word beyond those required by court ceremonial. As 1
backed out of the room, I saw Gallus smile at Eusebius.
I wonder now what Constantius was thinking. I suspect that even
then I may have puzzled him. Gallus was easily comprehended.
But who was this silent youth who wanted to become a priest ? I
had planned to say all sorts of things to Constantius, but he had
given me no opportunity. Surprisingly enough, he was nervous
with everyone. He could hardly speak, except when he was able to
speak, as it were, from the throne. Excepting his wife, Eusebia, and
the Grand Chamberlain, he had no confidants. He was a curious
man. Now that I am in his place I have more sympathy for him
than I did, though no liking. His suspicious nature was obviously
made worse by the fact that he was somewhat less intelligent than
those he had to deal with. This added to his unease and made him
humanly inaccessible. As a student he had failed rhetoric simply
through slowness of mind. Later he took to writing poetry, which
embarrassed everyone. His only "intellectual" exercise was Galilean
disputes. I am told that he was quite good at this sort of thing, but
any village quibbler can make a name for himself at a Galilean
synod. Look at Athanasius !
I was relieved by this interview. Of course I did not want to
become a priest, though if that were the price I had to pay for my
life I was perfectly willing to pay it.

[48]



In a blaze of pageantry, Constantius departed. Gallus, Bishop
George and I stood in the courtyard as he rode past. Mounted, he
looked splendid and tall in his armour of chased gold. He acknow-
ledged no one as he rode out of Macellum. In his cold way he was
most impressive, and I still envy him his majesty. He could stand
for hours in public looking neither to left nor right, motionless as a
statue, which is what our ceremonial requires. It was the Emperor
Diocletian who decided that we should become, in effect, if not in
title, Asiatic kings, to be displayed on rare occasions like the gilded
effigies of gods. Diocletian's motive was understandable, perhaps
inevitable, for in the last century emperors were made and un-
made frivolously, at the whim of the army. Diocletian felt that if
we were to be set apart, made sacred in the eyes of the people and
hedged round by awe-inspiring ritual, the army would have less
occasion to treat us with easy contempt. To a certain extent, this
policy has worked. Yet today whenever I ride forth in state and
observe the awe in the faces of the people, an awe inspired not
by me but by the theatricality of the occasion, I feel a perfect
impostor and want to throw off my weight of gold and shout, "Do
you want a statue or a man ?" I don't, of course, because they
would promptly reply, "A statue !"
As we watched the long procession make its way from the villa
to the main highway, Gallus suddenly exclaimed, "What I'd give
to go with them !"
"You will be gone soon enough, most noble Gallus." Bishop
George had now taken to using our titles."When ?" I asked.
Gallus answered. "In a few days. The Emperor promised. 'When
all is ready, you will join us.' That's what he said. I shall be given
a military command, and then . . . !" But Gallus was sufficiently
wise not to mention his hopes for the future. Instead he gave me
a dazzling smile. "And then," he repeated, with his usual malice,
"you'I1 become a deacon."
"The beginning of a most holy career," said Bishop George,
removing his silver headdress and handing it to an attendant. There
was a red line around his brow where the crown had rested. "I
wish I could continue with your education myself, but, alas, the
divine Augustus has other plans for me." For an instant a look of
pure delight illuminated that lean, sombre face."Alexandria ?" I asked.
He put his finger to his lips, and we went inside, each pleased

[49]


N,
hi;
A~
Cl
'(~0
de

with his fate: Gallus as Caesar in the East, George as bishop of
Alexandria, and I . . . well, at least I would be able to continue
my studies; better a live priest than a dead prince.
For the next few weeks we lived in hourly expectation of the
imperial summons. But as the weeks became months, hope slowly
died in each of us. We had been forgotten.
Bishop George promptly lost all interest in our education. We
seldom saw him, and when we did his attitude was obscurely re-
sentful, as if we were in some way responsible for his bad luck.
Gallus was grim and prone to sudden outbursts of violence. If a
brooch did not fasten properly, he would throw it on the floor and
grind it under his heel. On the days when he spoke at all, he roared
at everyone. But most of the time he was silent and glowering, his
only interest the angry seduction of slave girls. I was not, I confess,
in the best of spirits either, but at least I had Plotinus and Plato. I
was able to study, and to wait.

One curious thing happened at this time. At the villa there were
a number of Cappadocian youths, free-born country boys who
worked in the stables as grooms and trainers. They were a cheerful
lot and when I first came to Macellum I was allowed to play games
with them. They were the only companions I ever had of my own
age. I liked one in particular, Hilarius, a good-looking youth, two
years older than I. He had a quick mind, and I remember trying to
teach him to read when I was ten and already a pedagogue! But
as we grew older, each became aware of his place, and intimacy
ceased. Even so, I continued to interest myself in his welfare, and
when he told me that he wanted to marry a girl in Caesarea whose
father disapproved of the match, I was able to bring the father
round. I also made Hilarius my personal groom.
One April morning when I sent for my horse, a strange groom
brought it. Where was Hilarius ? Out riding with the most noble
Gallus. I was surprised. Gallus had his own groom, and we never
used one another's servants. But then I thought no more about it.
Quite happy to be alone, I rode towards the foothills of Mount
Argaeus, enioying the cool spring day. New leaves shone yellow-
green against black branches, and the earth steamed with a white
mist as I rode towards a favourite spot where juniper and cedar
grew around a natural spring.
At the approach to the clearing, I heard a sharp cry, like an

[50]


animal in pain. Then I saw two horses tethered to a bent cedar
tree at whose bole were strewn a man's clothes. Close by, hands
and feet bound, the naked Hilarius lay on his belly while Gallus
beat him with a riding crop. Every time the whip struck, Hilarius
would cry out. Most extraordinary of all was the expression on
Gallus's face. He was grinning with absolute pleasure, his face
transfigured by the other's pain.
"Stop it!" I rode straight up to him. Startled, Gallus turned to-
wards me. The boy called out to me to save him.
"Keep out of this." Gallus's voice was curiously hoarse.
"He's my groom," I said, rather irrelevantly, for if the boy had
been disobedient then Gallus had quite as much fight as I to punish
him. "I said keep out of this ! Go back !" Gallus aimed the whip at
me but struck the flank of my horse instead. The horse reared.
Gallus, alarmed, dropped the whip. In a fury myself, I rode
straight at my brother, the way cavalrymen are taught to ride
down foot-soldiers. He bolted. I reined in my horse just as he
mounted his own. We faced one another for an instant, breathing
hard. Gallus was still grinning, his teeth bared like a dog ready to
snap.
I tried to be calm. With great effort I asked, "What did he do ?"
To which Gallus answered, "Nothing!" Then with a laugh, he
spurred his horse and was gone. To this day I can remember the
way he said, "Nothing." Just as the Pythoness is filled with the
spirit of Apollo, so my brother Gallus was possessed by evil. It
was horrible.
I dismounted. I untied the boy, who was now sobbing and
babbling how he had done nothing - again nothing ! - when with-
out a word of anger or reproach Gallus had ordered him to dis-
mount and strip. Gallus had meant to beat him to death. I am sure
of that.
I rode back to Macellum, ready to do murder myself. But when
Gallus and I met that night at dinner, my anger had worn off
and in its place I experienced something like fear. I could cope with
almost any man. Young as I was, I had that much confidence in
myself. But a demon was another matter; especially a demon that
I did not understand.
All through dinner I stared at Gallus, who chose to be delight-
ful, playful and charming, and nowhere in his smiling face could
I find any hint of that sharp-toothed- I nearly wrote "fanged"-
grin I had seen a few hours earlier. I almost began to wonder if

ISI]


perhaps I had dreamed the whole business. But when I visited
Hilarius the next day and saw the scars on his back I knew that
I had dreamt nothing. Nothing. The word haunts me to this day.
For the remainder of our time at Macellum, Gallus and I con-
trived never to be alone together. When we did speak to one
another, it was always politely. We never mentioned what had
happened in the clearing.
A month later a letter arrived from the Grand Chamberlain: the
most noble Gallus was to proceed to his late mother's estate at
Ephesus; here he was to remain at the Emperor's pleasure. Gallus
was both elated and crestfallen. He was free of Macellum but he
was still a prisoner, and there was no mention of his being made
Caesar.
Gallus said good-bye to his officer friends at a dinner to which
I was, surprisingly, invited. He made a pleasant speech, promising
to remember his friends if he was ever to have a military com-
mand. Bishop George then presented him with a Galilean testa-
ment bound in massive silver. "Study it well, most noble Gallus.
Outside the church there can be no salvation." How often have I
heard that presumptuous line !
The next day when it was time for Gallus to say good-bye to
me, he did so simply. "Pray for me, brother, as I pray for you."
"I shall. Good-bye, Gallus." And we parted, exactly like
strangers who, having met for an evening in a post-house, take
different roads the next day. After Gallus left, I wept, for the last
time as a child. Yet I hated him. They say that to know oneself is
to know all there is that is human. But of course no one can ever
know himself. Nothing human is finally calculable; even to our-
selves we are strange.
On ~ June ~[8, almost as an afterthought, orders concerning me
were sent to Bishop George. I was to proceed to Constantinople.
Though my uncle Julian was in Egypt, his household was at my
disposal. I was to study philosophy under Ecebolius, a favourite
of Constantius. There was no suggestion of the priesthood, which
delighted me if not Bishop George. "I can't think why Augustus
has changed his mind. He was quite positive when he was here."
"Perhaps he may have some other use for me," I said tentatively.
"What better use is there than the service of God?" Bishop
George was in a bad temper. Athanasius was still at Alexandria,
and it now looked as if George was doomed to spend the rest of his
life in Cappadocia. With bad grace, he organized my departure.


It was a warm, misty day when I got into the carriage which
was to take me to Constantinople. Just as I was about to depart,
Bishop George asked me if I was certain that I had returned all
the volumes of Plotinus to his library. His secretary had reported
there was one missing. I swore that it had been returned only that
morning (which was true: I had been hurriedly copying passages
from it in a notebook). The Bishop then gave me his blessing and a
Galilean testament, bound not in silver but in cheap leather;
apparently I was not destined to be a Caesar! Yet I thanked him
profusely and said farewell. The driver cracked his whip. The horses
broke into a trot. For the first time in six years I was leaving the
confines of Macellum. My childhood was over, and I was still alive.


V

hin

Cla

:deť

"And you like the poetry of Bacchylides, as well ? Ah, we have
extraordinary taste! No doubt of that." I was so overcome by
Ecebolius's flattery that had he asked me then and there to leap
off the top of my uncle Julian's house as a literary exercise, I
would have done so gladly, with an appropriate quotation from
Hesiod as I fell. I chattered like a monkey as he examined me
closely in Hesiod, Homer, Herodotus, Thucydides, and Theognis.
For seven hours he listened as I recited from memory the many
thousands of lines I had memorized at Macellum. He affected to
be amazed. "I knew Bishop George was a splendid scholar- that
enviable library! But I had no idea he was a teacher of such
genius!" I beamed idiotically and kept on talking. I had at last
found my tongue, and there are those who think I have not
stopped talking since.
As a small child, I had studied at the Patricians' School with
Ecebolius. So we quickly picked up where we had left off, almost
as if nothing had changed, except that I was now a gawky adoles-
cent with a beard thick on the chin, spotty on the upper lip, in-
visible on the cheeks. I looked frightful but I refused to shave. I am
to be a philosopher, I said proudly; and that was that.
In Constantinople I was left largely to myself. I had only one
audience with the Grand Chamberlain Eusebius. I say "audience",
for not only did Eusebius exercise the actual power of the Em-
peror, he imitated his state. In fact, there used to be a joke that if
one wanted anything done, Constantius was the man to see because
he was reputed to have some influence with the Grand Chamberlain.
Eusebius received me in his suite at the Sacred Palace. He stood
up to greet me (although he was the second most powerful man
in the empire, he was only an illustris and I outranked him). He
greeted me in that sweet child's voice of his and motioned for me
to sit beside him. I noticed that his fat fingers shone with diamonds
and Indian rubies, and he was drenched in attar of roses.
"Is the most noble Julian comfortable in his uncle's house ?"
"Oh, yes, very comfortable."
"We thought he would prefer that to the . . . confinement of
the Sacred Palace. But of course you are only a few yards away.

[54]


You can visit us often. We hope you will." He gave me a dimpled
smile.
I asked him when the Emperor would return.
"We have no idea. He is now at Nisibis. There are rumours that
he may soon engage Sapor in a final battle. But you know as much
as I." He made a flattering gesture of obeisance to me. "We have
had excellent reports on your progress. Ecebolius tells us that you
have a gift for rhetoric which is unusual for your age, though not -
if I may say so - for one of your family." Nervous as I was, I smiled
at this hyperbole. Neither Constantius nor Gallus could develop
an argument or even deliver a proper speech.
"Ecebolius proposes that you also take a course in grammar
with Nicocles. I agree. These things are necessary to know, especi-
ally for one who may be raised very high." He let this sink in. As I
gabbled my admiration of Nicocles and my passion for grammar,
Eusebius studied me as though I were an actor in the theatre
giving a recitation. I could see that he was curious about me. Gallus
had obviously charmed h;~m, but then Gallus was neither intelli-
gent nor subtle; he posed no threat to the Grand Chamberlain. He
could be governed, just as Constantius was governed. But who
was this third prince, this half-grown youth with a patchy beard
who talked too fast and used ten quotations where one would do ?
Eusebius had not yet made up his mind about me. $o I did my best
to convince him that I was harmless.
"My interest is philosophy. My goal the University of Athens,
the lighthouse of the world. I should like to devote myself to litera-
ture, to philosophy. 'Men search out God and searching find him,'
as Aeschylus wrote. But of course we know God now in a way
our ancestors could not. Jesus came by special grace to save us.
He is like his father though not of the same substance. Yet it is
good to study the old ways. To speak out on every matter, even
error. For as Euripides wrote, 'A slave is he who cannot speak his
thought,' and who would be a slave, except to reason ? Yet too great
a love of reason might prove a trap, for as Horace wrote, 'Even
the wise man is a fool if he seeks virtue itself beyond what is
enough.'"
With some shame, I record the awful chatter I was capable of
in those days. I was so uncertain of myself that I never made a
personal observation about anything. Instead I spouted quotations.
In th'~s I resembled a great many contemporary Sophists who-
having no ideas of their own- string together the unrelated say-


ings of the distinguished dead and think themselves as wise as
those they quote. It is one thing to use text to illustrate a point one
is making, but quite another to quote merely to demonstrate the
excellence of one's memory. At seventeen I was the worst sort of
Sophist. This probably saved my life. I bored Eusebius profoundly
and we never fear those who bore us. By definition, a bore is pre-
dictable. If you think you know in advance what a man is apt to
say or do, you are not apt to be disagreeably surprised by him. I
am sure that in that one interview I inadvertently saved my
life.
"We shall do everything we can to bring to the divine Augustus's
attention your desire - commendable desire - to be enrolled at the
University of Athens. At the moment you must continue your
studies here. Also, I suggest . . ." He paused tactfully, his eyes
taking in my schoolboy clothes as well as my fingers from which
the ink had not been entirely washed. "... that you be instructed
in the ways of the court. I shall send you Eutherius. Though an
Armenian, he is a master of ceremony. He will acquaint you with
the niceties of our arrangements twice... no, perhaps three times
a week."
Eusebius rang a dainty silver bell. Then a familiar figure appeared
in the doorway: my old tutor Mardonius. He looked no different
than he had that day six years before when he said farewell to us
in front of the bishop's house. We embraced emotionally.
Eusebius purred. "Mardonius is my right arm. He is chief of my
secretarial bureau. A distinguished classicist, a loyal subject, a
good Christian of impeccable faith." Eusebius sounded as if he
were delivering a funeral oration. "He will show you out. Now
if you will forgive me, most noble prince, I have a meeting with
the Sacred Consistory." He rose. We saluted one another; then he
withdrew, urging me to call on him at any time.
When Mardonius and I were alone together, I said gaily, "I'm
sure you never thought you'd see me alive again !"
This was exactly the wrong thing to say. Poor Mardonius turned
corpse-yellow. "Not here," he whispered. "The palace-secret
agents- everywhere. Come." Talking of neutral matters, he led
me through marble corridors to the main door of the palace. As
we passed through the outer gate, the Scholarian guards saluted
me, and I felt a momentary excitement which was not at all in
the character I had just revealed to Eusebius.
My attendants were waiting for me under the arcade across the


square. I motioned to them to remain where they were. Mardonius
was brief. "I won't be able to see you again. I asked the Grand
Chamberlain if I might instruct you in court ceremonial, but he
said no. He made it very clear I am not to see you."
"What about this fellow he told me about, the Armenian ?"
"Eutherius is a good man. You will like him. I don't think he
has been sent to incriminate you, though of course he will make
out regular reports. You must be careful what you say at all times.
Never criticize the Emperor..."
"I know that much, Mardonius." I could not help but smile. He
was sounding exactly the way he used to. "I've managed to live
this long."
"But this is Constantinople, not Macellum. This is the Sacred
Palace which is a . . . a . . . nothing can describe it."
"Not even Homer ?" I teased him. He smiled wanly. "Homer had
no experience of this sort of viciousness and corruption."
"What do they mean to do with me ?"
"The Emperor has not decided."
"Will Eusebius decide for him ?"
"Perhaps. Keep on his good side. Appear to be harmless."
"Not difficult."
"And wait." Mardonius suddenly became his old self. "Incident-
ally, I read one of your themes. 'Alexander the Great in Egypt.'
Too periphrastic. Also, a misquotation. From the Odyssey t6. t87:
'No God am I. Why then do you liken me to the immortals ?' You
used the verb meaning 'to place among' rather than 'to liken'. I
was humiliated when Eusebius showed me the mistake."
I apologized humbly. I was also amazed to realize that every
schoolboy exercise of mine was on file in the Grand Chamberlain's
office.
"That is how they will build their case for - or against - you."
Mardonius frowned and the thousand wrinkles of his face sud-
denly looked like the shadow of a spider's web in the bright sun.
"Be careful. Trust no one." He hurried back into the palace.

I remained the rest of that year at Constantinople. I had a
sufficient income, left me by my grandmother who had died that
summer. I was allowed to see her just before her death, but she did
not recognize me. She spoke disjointedly. She shook with palsy
and at times the shaking became so violent that she had to be


strapped to her bed. When I left, she kissed me, murmuring,
"Sweet, sweet."
By order of the Grand Chamberlain I was not allowed to associate
with boys my own age or, for that matter, with anyone other
than my instructors, Ecebolius and Nicocles, and the Armenian
eunuch. Ecebolius is a man of much charm. But Nicocles I detested.
He was a short, sparse grasshopper of a man. Many regard him as
our age's first grammarian. But I always thought of him as the
enemy. He did not like me either. I remember in particular one
conversation with him. It is amusing in retrospect. "The most
noble Julian is at an impressionable period in his life. He must
be careful of those he listens to. The world is now full of false
teachers. In religion we have the party of Athanasius, a most
divisive group. In philosophy we have all sorts of mountebanks,
like Libanius."
That was the first time I heard the name of the man who was to
mean so much to me as thinker and teacher. Not very interested,
I asked who Libanius was.
"An Antiochene - and we know what they are like. He studied
at Athens. Then he came here to teach. That was about twelve
years ago. He was young. He was had-mannered to his colleagues,
to those of us who were, if not wiser, at least more experienced
than he." Nicocles made a sound like an insect's wings rustling on
a summer day - laughter ? "He was also tactless about religion. All
the great teachers here are Christian. He was not. Like so many
who go to Athens (and I deplore, if I may say so, your desire to
study there), Libanius prefers the empty ways of our ancestors. He
calls himself a Hellenist, preferring Plato to the gospels, Homer
to the old testament. In his four years here he completely dis-
rupted the academic community. He was always making trouble.
Such a vain man! Why, he even prepared a paper for the
Emperor on the teaching of Greek, suggesting changes in our
curriculum! I'm glad to say he left us eight years ago, under
a cloud."
"What sort of cloud ?" I was oddly intrigued by this recital.
Oddly, because academics everywhere are for ever attacking one
another, and I had long since learned that one must never believe
what any teacher says of another.
"He was involved with a girl, the daughter of a senator. He was
to give her private instruction in the classics. Instead, he made her
pregnant. Her family complained. So the Emperor, to save the


reputation of the girl and her family, a very important family
(you would know who they are if I told you, which I must not)

ú . . the Augustus exiled Libanius from the capital."
"Where is Libanius now ?"
"At Nicomedia, where as usual he is making himself difficult.
He has a passion to be noticed." The more Nicocles denounced
Libanius, the more interested I became in him. I decided I must
meet him. But how ? Libanius could not come to Constantinople
and I could not go to Nicomedia. Fortunately, I had an ally.
I liked the Armenian eunuch Eutherius as much as I disliked
Nicocles. Eutherius taught me court ceremonial three times a week.
He was a grave man of natural dignity who did not look or sound
like a eunuch. His beard was normal. His voice was low. He had
been cut at the age of twenty, so he had known what it was to
be a man. He once told me in grisly detail how he had almost died
during the operation, "from loss of blood, because the older you
are, the more dangerous the operation is. But I have been happy.
I have had an interesting life. And there is something to be said
for not wasting one's time in the pursuit of sexual pleasure." But
though this was true of Eutherius, it was not true of all eunuchs,
especially those at the palace. Despite their incapacity, eunuchs
are capable of sexual activity, as I one day witnessed, in a scene
I shall describe in its proper place.
When I told Eutherius that I wanted to go to Nicomedia, he
agreed to conduct the intricate negotiations with the Chamber-
lain's office. Letters were exchanged daily between my household
and the palace. Eutherius was often in the absurd position of
writing, first, my letter of request, and then Eusebius's elaborate
letter of reiection. "It is good practice for me," said Eutherius
wearily, as the months dragged on.
Shortly after New Year 349 Eusebius agreed to let me go to
Nicomedia on condition that I do not attend the lectures of Libanius.
As Nicocles put it, "Just as we protect our young from those who
suffer from the fever, so we must protect them from dangerous
ideas, not to mention poor rhetoric. As stylist, Libanius has a
tendency to facetiousness which you would find most boring. As
philosopher, he is dangerously committed to the foolish past."
To make sure that I would not cheat, Ecebolius was ordered to
accompany me to Nicomedia.
Ecebolius and I arrived at Nicomedia in February 349. I enjoyed
myself hugely that winter. I attended lectures. I listened to skilled

[~9]


Sophists debate. I met students of my own age. This was not always
an easy matter, for they were terrified of me, while I hardly knew
how to behave with them.
Libanius was much spoken of in the city. But I saw him only
once. He was surrounded by students in one of the porticoes near
the gymnasium of Trajan. He was a dark, rather handsome man.
Ecebolius pointed him out, saying grimly, "Who else would imitate
Socrates in everything but wisdom ?""Is he so bad ?"
"He is a troublemaker. Worse than that, he is a bad rhetorician.
He never learned to speak properly. He simply chatters.""But his writings are superb."
"How do you know ?" Ecebolius looked at me sharply.
"I... from the others here. They talk about him." To this day
Ecebolius does not know that I used to pay to have Libanius's
lectures taken down in shorthand. Though Libanius had been
warned not to approach me, he secretly sent me copies of his
lectures, for which I paid him well.
"He can only corrupt," said Ecebolius. "Not only is he a poor
model for style, he despises our religion. He is impious."

Priscus: That sounds just like Ecebolius, doesn't it ? Of course when
Julian became emperor, Ecebolius embraced Hellenism. Then
when Valentinian and Valens became co-emperors, Ecebolius threw
himself down in front of the Church of the Holy Apostles, crying,
"Tread on me! I am as salt which has lost its sayour!" I always
wondered if anybody did tread on him. I should have liked to. He
changed his religion five times in thirty years and died at a fine old
age, honoured by all. If there is a moral to his career, it eludes me.
I do recall that story about you and the senator's daughter. Is
it true ? I always suspected you were rather a lady's man, in your
day of course.

Z/han/v.~:.hhq,- J oxhalJ .mot oeiy_e y_ri~sc_u_s _the,pleasure of an answer. I
shall also suppress Julian's references to that old scandal. It serves
no purpose to rake over the past in such a pointless way. I have
always known that a story more or less along those lines was circu-
lated about me, but this is the first time I have been confronted
with it in all its malice. Envious Sophists will go to any lengths to
tear down one's reputation. There was no "senator's daughter", at
least not as described. The whole thing is absurd. For one thing, if

[6o]


I had been dismissed by the Emperor on such a charge, why was I
then asked by the court to return to Constantinople in 353 ? Which
I did, and remained there several years before coming home to
Antioch.
I am far more irritated by Ecebolius's reference to my "facetious-
ness". That from him ! I have always inclined to a grave - some
feel too grave - style, only occasionally lightened by humour. Also,
if I am as poor a stylist as he suggests, why am I the most imitated
of living writers ? Even in those days, a prince paid for my lecture
notes! Incidentally, Julian says that he paid me for the lectures.
That is not true. Julian paid one of my students who had a com-
plete set of notes. He also engaged a shorthand writer to take down
my conversation. I myself never took a penny from him. How
tangled truth becomes.

]ulian Augustus
Looking back, I seem to have followed a straight line towards
my destiny. 1 moved from person to person as though each had
been deliberately chosen for my instruction. But at the time I had
only a pleasurable sense of freedom, nothing more. Nevertheless,
the design of my life was taking shape and each wise man I met
formed yet another link in that chain which leads towards the
ultimate revelation which Plotinus has so beautifully described as
"the flight of the alone to the Alone".
At Nicomedia I forged an important new link. Like most uni-
versity towns, Nicomedia had a particular bath where the students
assembled. The students' bath is usually the cheapest in town,
though not always, for students have strange tastes and when they
suddenly decide that such-and-such a tavern or bath or arcade is
the one place where they most want to gather, they will then think
nothing of cost or comfort.
I longed to go alone to the baths and mingle with students my
own age, but Ecebolius always accompanied me. "The Chamber-
lain's orders," he would say, whenever we entered the baths, my
two guards trailing us as though we were potential thieves in a
market-place. Even in the hot room, I would be flanked by sweat-
ing guards while Ecebolius hovered near by to see that no one
presented himself to me without first speaking to him. As a result,
the students I wanted to meet were scared off.
But one morning Ecebolius awakened with the fever. "I must
keep to my bed 'with only cruel pain for handmaid'," he said, teeth


:o

chattering. I told him how sorry I was and then, utterly happy,
I left for the baths. My guards promised that once inside they
would not stick too closely to me. They realized how much I
wanted to be anonymous, and in those days it was possible, for
I was not well known in Nicomedia. I never went into the agora,
and when I attended lectures I always came in last and sat at the
back.
Students go to the baths in the morning, when the admission
price is cheapest. Shortly before noon I queued up and followed
the mob into the changing room where I undressed at the opposite
end from my two guards, who pretended to be soldiers on leave.
As far as I know, I was not recognized.
Since the day was warm, I went outside to the palaestra; here
the athletically inclined were doing exercises and playing games.
Avoiding the inevitable group of old men who linger watchfully
in the shade, I crossed to a lively-looking group, seated on a bench
in the sun. They ignored me when I sat beside them."And you took the money ?"
"I did. We all did. About a hundred of us."
"Then what happened ?"
"We never went to his lectures."
"Was he angry ?"
"Of course."
"But not as angry as he was when . . ."
"... when all of us went back to Libanius !"
They laughed at what was in those days a famous story. Within
a year of Libanius's arrival at Nicomedia, he was easily the most
popular teacher in the city. This naturally enraged his rival Sophists,
one of whom tried to buy Libanius's students away from him. The
students took the man's money and continued to attend Libanius's
lectures. It was a fine joke, until the furious Sophists applied to
friends at court who had Libanius arrested on some spurious charge.
Fortunately, he was soon freed.

Libanius: This was the beginning of my interest in penal reform.
Over the years I have written a good deal on the subject, and there
is some evidence that I am beginning to arouse the conscience of
the East. At least our rulers are now aware of the barbarous con-
ditions in which prisoners are held. I had never realized how truly
hopeless our prison system is until I myself was incarcerated. But
improvements are hard to make. Despite all evidence to the con-


trary, I do not think human beings are innately cruel, but they fear
change of any kind. And now I am digressing.
Is this age ? Just yesterday I had a most curious conversation
on that subject with an old friend and colleague. I asked him
why it was that nowadays whenever I address the assembly at
Antioch, the senators cough and talk among themselves. I realize
I am not a master of oratory, but after all what I have to say and
the way in which I say it is - and I do not mean this immodestly
-of obvious interest to the world. I am the most famous living
writer of Greek. As quaestor, I am official spokesman for my city.
"So why do people stop listening when I start to speak? And
why, when the session is over and I try to talk to various senators
and officials in the arcade, do they wander off when I am in mid-
sentence, saying that they have appointments to keep, even though
it is quite plain that they do not ?"
"Because, my dear old friend, you have become - now you asked
me to tell you the truth, remember that - a bore."
I was stunned. Of course as a professional teacher one tends to
lecture rather than converse, but that is a habit most public men
fall into. "But even so, I should have thought that what I was say-
ing was of some interest...""It is. It always is."
"... rather than the way I say it, which may perhaps be over-
explicit."
"You are too serious."
"No one can be too serious about what is important."
"Apparently the Antiochenes think otherwise."
We parted. I must say I have been thinking all day about what
my colleague said. Have I aged so greatly ? Have I lost my power
to define and persuade ? Am I too serious ? I am suddenly tempted
to write some sort of apologia for myself, to explain my unbecom-
ing gravity. I must do something .... But scribbling these highly
personal remarks on the back of Julian's memoirs is not the answer!

Julian Augustus
As I sat on the bench in the sun, revelling in warmth and
anonymity, a dark man approached me. He gave me a close look.
Then he said, "Macellum ?"
At first I was annoyed at being recognized. But when I realized
that this young man was the physician Oribasius, I was glad that
he spoke to me. In no time at all we were talking as if we had


known each other all our lives. Together we took the baths. In the
circular hot room, as we scraped oil from one another, Oribasius
told me that he had left the court."To practise privately ?"
"No. Family affairs. My father died. And now I have to go home
to Pergamon to settle the estate."
"How did you recognize me ? It's been two years."
"I always remember faces, especially those of princes."
I motioned for him to lower his voice. Just opposite us two
students were trying to overhear our conversation.
"Also," whispered Oribasius, "that awful beard of yours is a
give-away."
"It's not very full yet," I said, tugging at it sadly.
"And everyone in Nicomedia knows that the most noble Julian
is trying to grow a philosopher's beard."
"Well, at my age there's always hope."
After a plunge in the cold pool, we made our way to the hall
of the tepidarium, where several hundred students were gathered,
talking loudly, singing, occasionally wrestling, to the irritation of
the bath attendants, who would then move swiftly among them,
cracking heads with metal keys.
Oribasius promptly convinced me that I should come stay with
him in Pergamon. "I've a big house and there's no one in it. You
can also meet Aedesius .... "
Like everyone, I admired Aedesius. He was Pergamon's most
famous philosopher, the teacher of Maximus and Priscus, and a
friend of the late Iamblichos.
"You'll like Pergamon. Thousands of Sophists, arguing all day
long. We even have a woman Sophist.""A woman ?"
"Well, perhaps she's a woman. There is a rumour she may be a
goddess. You must ask her, since she started the rumour. Anyway,
she gives lectures on philosophy, practises magic, predicts the
future. You'll like her."
"But you don't ?"
"But you will."
At that moment we were joined by the two young men from
the hot room. One was tall and well built; his manner grave. The
other was short and thin with a tight smile and quick black eyes.
As they approached, my heart sank. I had been recognized. The
short one introduced himself. "Gregory of Nazianzus, most noble

[64]


Julian. And this is Basil. We are both from Cappadocia. We saw
you the day the divine Augustus came to Macellum. We were ~,n
the crowd."
"Are you studying here .~"
"No. We're on our way to Constantinople, to study with
Nicocles. But Basil wanted to stop off here to attend the lectures
of the impious Libanius."
Basil remonstrated mildly. "Libanius is not a Christian, but he
is the best teacher of rhetoric in Nicomedia."
"Basil is not like us, most noble Julian," said Gregory. "He is
much too tolerant."
I found myself liking Basil and disliking Gregory, I suppose be-
cause of that presumptuous "us". Gregory has always had too much
of the courtier in him. But I have since come to like him, and to-
day we are all three friends, despite religious differences. They
were agreeable companions, and I still recall with pleasure that
day we met when I was a student among students with no guardian
to inhibit conversation. When it was finally time to leave the
baths, I promised Oribasius that somehow or other I would join
him in Pergamon. Meanwhile, Gregory and Basil agreed to dine
with me. They were just the sort Ecebolius would approve of:
devout Galileans with no interest in politics. But I knew instinc-
tively that Oribasius would alarm ścebolius. Oribasius had been at
court and he moved in high circles. He was also rich and worldly
and precisely the sort of friend a sequestered prince should not
have. I decided to keep Oribasius my secret for the time being. This
proved to be wise.

In January 55o, Ecebolius and I got permission to move on to
Pergamon. We made the three-hundred-mile trip in bitter cold. As
we rode through the perpetual haze of steam from our own breath,
I recall thinking, this must be what it is like to campaign in Ger-
many or Russia: barren countryside, icy roads, a black sky at noon.
and soldiers behind me, their arms clattering in the stillness. I day-
dreamed about the military life, which was strange, for in those
days I seldom thought of anything except philosophy and religion.
I suspect that I was born a soldier and only "made" a philosopher.
At Pergamon, ścebolius insisted we stay at the palace of the
Greek kings, which had been made available to me. But when the
prefect of the city (who had most graciously met us at the gate)

[6s]


hinted that I would have to pay for the maintenance of the palace,
Ecebolius agreed that we were better off as guests of Oribasius,
who had also met us at the gate, pretending not to know me but
willing, as a good courtier, to put up the Emperor's cousin. In those
days Oribasius was far richer than I and often lent me money when
I was short of cash. We were like brothers.
Oribasius took delight in showing me his city. He knew my
interest in temples (though I was not yet consciously a Hellenist),
and we spent several days prowling through the deserted temples
on the acropolis and across the Selinos River, which divides the
city. Even then, I was struck by the sadness of once holy buildings
now empty save for spiders and scorpions. Only the temple of
Asklepios was kept up, and that was because the Asklepion is the
centre of the intellectual life of the city. It is a large enclave con-
taining theatre, library, gymnasium, porticoes, gardens, and of
course the circular temple to the god himself. Most of the build-
ings date from two centuries ago, when architecture was at its most
splendid.
The various courtyards are filled with students at every hour
of the day. The teachers sit inside the porticoes and talk. Each
teacher has his own following. Unfortunately when we came to
the portico where Aedesius was usually to be found, we were told
that he was ill.
"After all, he's over seventy," said a raffish youth, dressed as
a New Cynic. "Why don't you go to Prusias's lectures ? He's the
coming man. Absolutely first-rate. I'll take you to him." But
Oribasius firmly extricated us from the young man's clutches. Curs-
ing genially, the admirer of Prusias let us go. We started back to
the agora.
"That's how a lot of students live in Pergamon. For each new
pupil they bring to their teacher, they are paid so much a head."
Just behind the old theatre, Oribasius pointed to a small house in
a narrow street. "Aedesius lives there."
I sent one of my guards to ask if the philosopher would receive
me. After a long wait, a fat woman with a fine grey beard and
spiky moustache came to the door and said firmly, "He can see no
olle."
"But when will he be able to ?"
"Perhaps never," she said, and shut the door.
Oribasius laughed. "His wife. She's not as nice as she looks."
"But I must meet him."

[66]


"We'll arrange it somehow. Anyway, tonight I've something
special for you."
That something special was the woman philosopher, Sosipatra.
She was then in her forties but looked much younger. She was
tall and though somewhat heavy, her face was still youthful and
handsome.
When we arrived at her house, Sosipatra came straight to me,
knowing exactly who I was without being told. "Most noble Julian,
welcome to our house. And you too, Ecebolius. Oribasius, your
father sends you greetings."
Oribasius looked alarmed, as well he might: his father had been
dead three months. But Sosipatra was serious. "I spoke to him just
now. He is well. He stands within the third arc of Helios, at a
hundred-and-eighty-degree angle to the light. He advises you to
sell the farm in Galatia. Not the one with the cedar grove. The
other. With the stone house. Come in, most noble prince. You went
to see Aedesius today but his wife turned you away. Nevertheless,
my old friend will see you in a few days. He is sick at the moment
but he will recover. He has four more years of life. A holy, good
man."
I was quite overwhelmed, as she led me firmly by the hand into
a dining-room whose walls were decorated with pictures of the
mysteries of Demeter. There were couches for us and a chair for
her. Slaves helped us off with our sandals and washed our feet.
We then arranged ourselves about the table. All the while, Sosipatra
continued to talk in such a melodious voice that even Ecebolius,
who did not much like the idea of her, was impressed.
"Do you know the beautiful story of Aedesius and his father ?
No ? It is so characteristic. The father wanted his son to join him
in the family business. But first he sent him to school at Athens.
When Aedesius returned from school, he told his father that it was
now impossible for him to go into business. He preferred to become
a philosopher. Furious, his father drove him out of the house,
shouting, 'What good does philosophy do you now?' To which
Aedesius replied, 'It has taught me to revere my father, even as he
drives me from his house.' From that moment on, Aedesius and his
father were friends."
We were all edified by this story. Sosipatra was indeed a foun-
tain of wisdom, and we were fortunate to drink of her depths.

?riscus: Did you ever meet this monster ? I once spent a week with
[67]


her and her husband at Pergamon. She never stopped talking. Even
Aedesius, who was fond of her (I think he was once her lover),
thought her ignorant, though he would never have admitted it. He,
by the way, was an excellent man. After all, he was my teacher
and am I not, after Libanius, the wisest man of our age ?

Libanius: Irony ?

Priscus: But though Sosipatra was hardly a philosopher, she was
a remarkable magician. Even I came close to believing in her
spells and predictions. She also had a sense of drama which was
most exciting. Julian was completely taken in by her, and I
date his fatal attraction to this sort of thing from that dinner
party.
Incidentally, a friend of mine once had an affair with Sosipatra.
When the act was over, she insisted that he burn incense to her
as she lay among the tangled sheets. "For I am Aphrodite, goddess
come among men." He burned the incense but never went to bed
with her again.
Maximus also thought that Sosipatra was divine, or at least
"inhabited from time to time by the spirit of Aphrodite". Which
made her sound rather like an inn. I always found her tedious. But
she was often accurate in her predictions. Lucky guesses ? Who
knows ? If the gods exist, which I doubt, might they not be every
bit as boring as Sosipatra ?

Ubanius: As always, Priscus goes too far. But I rather agree with
him about Sosipatra. She did talk too much. But then, who am I
to criticize her when one of my oldest friends has just told me
to my face that I bore all Antioch ?

Julian Augustus
When the dinner was over, $osipatra presented her sons to us.
They were about my age. Two of them grew up to be speculators
in grain, and most unsavoury. The third, Anatolius, I heard news
of only recently. Some years ago he attached himself to the temple
of Serapis at Alexandria. After Bishop George destroyed the
temple, Anatolius climbed on to a broken column and now stares
continually at the sun. How I envy the purity of such a life! But
that night at dinner, the future holy man seemed a very ordinary
youth, with a slight stammer.

[683


When the sons had withdrawn, Sosipatra sent for a tripod and
incense. "And now you will want to know what the gods advise
you to do. Where to go. With whom to study." She gave me a
dazzling smile.
I blurted out, "I want to study here, with you." But she shook
her head, to Ecebolius's relief. "I know my own future and a prince
is no part of it. I wish it were otherwise," she added softly, and I
fell in love with her on the spot, as so many students had done
before me.
$osipatra lit the incense. She shut her eyes. She whispered a
prayer. Then in a low voice she implored the Great Goddess to
speak to us. Smoke filled the room. All things grew vague and in-
distinct. My head began to ache. Suddenly in a loud voice not her
own, Sosipatra said, "Julian !"
I looked at her closely. Her eyes were half open but only the
whites showed: she slept while the spirit possessed her. "You are
loved by us beyond any man alive." That was puzzling. "Us" must
mean the gods. But why should they love a Galilean who doubted
their existence ? Of course I had also begun to question the divinity
of the Nazarene, which made me neither Hellenist nor Galilean,
neither believer nor atheist. I was suspended somewhere between,
waiting for a sign. Could this be it ?
"You will rebuild our temples. You will cause the smoke of a
thousand sacrifices to rise from a thousand altars. You shall be
our servant and all men shall be your servants, as token of our
love."
Ecebolius stirred nervously. "We must not listen to this," he
murmured.
The voice continued serenely. "The way is dangerous. But we
shall protect you, as we have protected you from the hour of your
birth. Earthly glory shall be yours. And death when it comes in
far Phrygia, by enemy steel, will be a hero's death, without pain-
ful lingering. Then you shall be with us for ever, close to the One
from whom all light flows, to whom all light returns. Oh, Julian,
dear to us . . . Evil.t" The voice changed entirely. It became
harsh. "Foul and profane! We bring you defeat. Despair. The
Phrygian death is yours. But the tormented soul is ours for ever, far
from light !"
5osipatra screamed. She began to writhe in her chair; her hands
clutched at her throat as though to loosen some invisible bond.
Words tumbled disiointedly from her mouth. She was a battle-

[69]


ground between warring spirits. But at last the good prevailed, and
she became tranquil.
"Ephesus," she said, and her voice was again soft and caressing.
"At Ephesus you will find the door to light. Ecebolius, when you
were a child you hid three coins in the garden of your uncle's
house at Sirmium. One was a coin of the reign of Septimus Severus.
A gardener dug up the coins and spent them. That coin of Severus
is now in Pergamon, in a tavern. Oribasius, your father insists you
sell the property but hopes you will not make the same mistake
you made last year when you leased the lower meadow to your
Syrian neighbour, and he would not pay. Julian, beware the fate
of Gallus. Remember . . . Hilarius!" She stopped. She became
herself again. "My head aches," she said in a tired voice.
We were all quite shaken. I most of all for she had practically
said that I would become emperor, which was treason, for no one
may consult an oracle about the imperial succession, nor even
speculate in private on such matters. Ecebolius had been rightly
alarmed.
$osipatra had no memory of what was said. She listened care-
fully as we told her what the goddess- and the other- had said.
She was intrigued. "Obviously a great future for the most
noble Julian."
"Of course," said Ecebolius nervously. "As a loyal prince of the
imperial house . . ."
"Of course!" Sosipatra laughed. "We must say no more." Then
she frowned. "I have no idea who the dark spirit was. But it is
plain that the goddess was Cybele, and she wants you to honour
her since she is the mother of all, and your protectress."
"It also seems indicated that Julian should avoid Phrygia," said
Oribasius mischievously.
But Sosipatra took this quite seriously. "Yes. Julian will die in
Phrygia, gloriously, in battle." She turned to me. "I don't under-
stand the reference to your brother. Do you ?"
I nodded, unable to speak, my head whirling with dangerous
thoughts.
"The rest of it seems plain enough. You are to restore the worship
of the true gods."
"It seems rather late in the day for that." Ecebolius had found
his tongue at last. "And even if it were possible, Julian is a Chris-
tian. The imperial house is Christian. This makes him a most un-
likely candidate for restoring the old ways."

[70]




"Are you unlikely ?" Sosipatra fixed me with her great dark eyes.
I shook my head helplessly. "I don't know. I must wait for a
sign."
"Perhaps this was the sign. Cybele herself spoke to you."
"So did something else," said Ecebolius.
"There is always the Other," said Sosipatra. "But light trans-
cends all things. As Macrobius wrote, 'The sun is the mind of the
universe.' And nowhere, not even in the darkest pit of hell, is mind
entirely absent."
"What is at Ephesus ?" i asked suddenly.
Sosipatra gave me a long look. Then she said, "Maximus is there.
He is waiting for you. He has been waiting for you since the day
you were born."
Ecebolius stirred at this. "I am perfectly sure that Maximus
would like nothing better than to instruct the prince, but, un-
fortunately for him, I was appointed by the Grand Chamberlain
to supervise Julian's studies and I am not at all eager for my pupil
to become involved with a notorious magician."
$osipatra's voice was icy. "We think of Maximus as being some-
thing more than a 'notorious magician'. It is true that he can
make the gods appear to him, but . . .""Actually appear ?" I was fascinated.
"Actors, from the theatre," muttered Oribasius, "carefully re-
hearsed, tricks of lighting . . ."
Sosipatra smiled. "Oribasius! That is unworthy of you! What
would your father say to that ?"
"I have no idea. You see more of him nowadays than I do."
Sosipatra ignored this. She turned to me. "Maximus is no
charlatan. If he were, I would have unmasked him years ago. Of
course people question his powers. They should. One must not
take anything on blind faith. Yet when he speaks to the gods..."
"He speaks to them, but do they really speak to him ? That's
more the point," said Ecebolius.
"They do. I was present once in Ephesus when a group of
atheists questioned him, just as you have."
"Not to believe in Maximus does not make one an atheist."
Ecebolius was growing irritated.
She continued through him. "Maximus asked us to meet him
that night in the temple of Hecate. Now the temple has not been
used in years. It is a simple building, containing a bronze statue
of the goddess and nothing more, so there was no way for

[7~]


Maximus to... prepare a miracle." She looked sharply at
Oribasius. "When we had all arrived, Maximus turned to the
statue and said, 'Great Goddess, show these unbelievers a sign of
your power.' There was a moment of silence. Then the bronze
torches she held in her bronze hands burst into flame."
"Naphtha," said Oribasius.
"But that was not all. The statue smiled at us. The bronze
face smiled. Then Hecate laughed. I have never heard such a
sound! All heaven seemed to mock us, as we fled from that
place."
"I must go to Ephesus," I said.
Sosipatra turned to Ecebolius. "He has no choice, you know.
At Ephesus his life begins."

The next day I received word that Aedesius would see me. I
found him lying on a cot, his bearded wife beside him. Aedesius
was a small man who had once been fat, but now because of ill-
ness and age the skin hung from him in folds. It was hard to be-
lieve that this frail old man had once been the pupil of Iamblichos
and actually present on that occasion when Iamblichos caused
two divine youths to appear from twin pools in the rock at
Gadara. Yet despite his fragility, Aedesius was alert and amiable.
"Sosipatra tells me that you have a gift for philosophy.""If a passion can be called a gift."
"Why not ? Passion is a gift of the gods. She also tells me that
you plan to go to Ephesus."
"Only if I cannot study with you."
"Too late for that." He sighed. "As you see, I am in poor health.
She gives me four more years of this life. But I doubt that I shall
last so long. Anyway, Maximus will be more to your taste. He was
my student, you know. After Priscus of Athens, he was my best
student. Of course Maximus prefers demonstration to argument,
mysteries to books. But then there are many ways to truth. And
from what Sosipatra tells me, he was born to be your guide. It is
clearly destiny."

?riscus: It was clearly a plot. They were all in on it. Years later,
Maximus admitted as much. "I knew all along I was the right
teacher for Julian. Naturally, I never dreamed he would be
emperor." He did not dream it; he willed it. "I saw him simply

[72]


as a soul that I alone could lead to salvation." Maximus then got
$osipatra and Aedesius to recommend him to Julian, which they
did. What an extraordinary crew they were ! Except for Aedesius,
there was not a philosopher in the lot.
From what I gather, Julian in those days was a highly intelli-
gent youth who might have been "captured" for true philosophy.
After all, he enjoyed learning. He was good at debate. Properly
educated, he might have been another Porphyry or, taking into
account his unfortunate birth, another Marcus Aurelius. But
Maximus got to him first and exploited his one flaw: that craving
for the vague and incomprehensible which is essentially Asiatic. It
is certainly not Greek, even though we Greeks are in a noticeable
intellectual decline. Did you know that thanks to the presence of
so many foreign students in Athens, our people no longer speak
pure Attic but a sort of argot, imprecise and ugly ? Yet despite the
barbarism which is slowly extinguishing "the light of the world",
we Athenians still pride ourselves on being able to see things as
they are. Show us a stone and we see a stone, not the universe. But
like so many others nowadays, poor Julian wanted to believe that
man's life is profoundly more significant than it is. His sickness
was the sickness of our age. We want so much not to be extin-
guished at the end that we will go to any length to make conjuror-
tricks for one another simply to obscure the bitter, secret know-
ledge that it is our fate not to be. If Maximus hadn't stolen Julian
from us, the bishops would have got him. I am sure of that. At
heart he was a Christian mystic gone wrong.

Libanius: Christian mystic! Had Priscus any religious sense he
might by now have experienced that knowledge of oneness,
neither "bitter" nor "secret", which Plotinus and Porphyry, Julian
and I, each in his own way- mystically-arrived at. Or failing
that, had he been admitted to the mysteries of Eleusis just fourteen
miles from his own house in Athens, he might have understood
that since the soul is, there can be no question of its not-being.
But I agree with Priscus about Maximus. I was aware at the
time of the magicians' plot to capture Julian, but since I was for-
bidden to speak to him I could hardly warn him. Yet they did
Julian no lasting harm. He sometimes put too much faith in oracles
and magic, but he always had a firm grip of logic and he excelled
in philosophic argument. He was hardly a Christian mystic. Yet he
was a mystic - something Priscus could never understand.

[73]


Julian Augustus
Ecebolius was eager to go to Ephesus, rather to my surprise; I
had thought he would have wanted to keep me from Maximus.
But he was compliant. "After all, I am your teacher, approved by
the Emperor. You cannot officially study with Maximus, or any-
one else. Not that I would object. Far from it. I am told Maximus
is most inspiring, though hopelessly reactionary. But we hardly
need worry about your being influenced at this late date. After
all, you were taught Christian theology by two great bishops,
Eusebius and George. What firmer foundation can any man have ?
By all means let us visit Ephesus. You will enjoy the intellectual
life. And so shall I."
What Ecebolius had come to enjoy was playing Aristotle to my
green Alexander. Everywhere we went, academics were curious
to know me. That meant they got to know Ecebolius. In no time
at all, he was proposing delicately that he "exchange" students
with them. "Exchange" meant that they would send him students
at Constantinople for which they would receive nothing except
the possible favour of the prince. During our travels, Ecebolius
made his fortune.
In a snowstorm we were met at the gates of Ephesus by the city
prefect and the town council. They were all very nervous.
"It is a great honour for Ephesus to receive the most noble
Julian," said the prefect. "We are here to serve him, as we have
served the most noble Gallus, who has also honoured us by his
presence here." At the mention of Gallus, as though rehearsed, the
councillors began to mutter, "Kind, good, wise, noble."
"Where is my brother?"
There was a tense pause. The prefect looked anxiously at the
councillors. They looked at one another. There was a good deal
of energetic brushing of snow from cloaks.
"Your brother," said the prefect, finally, "is at court. At Milan.
He was summoned by the Emperor last month. There has been
no word about him. None at all. Naturally, we hope for the
best."
"And what is the best ?"
"Why, that he be made Caesar." It was not necessary to inquire
about the worst.
After due ceremony, we were led to the prefect's house, where
I was to stay. Ecebolius was thrilled at the thought that I might
soon be half-brother to a Caesar. But I was alarmed. My alarm

[74]


became panic when later that night Oribasius told me that Gallus
had been taken from Ephesus under arrest."Was he charged with anything ?"
"The Emperor's pleasure. There was no charge. Most people
expect him to be executed."
"Has he given any cause 7"
Oribasius shrugged. "If he is executed, people will give a hun-
dred reasons why the Emperor did the right thing. If he is made
Caesar, they will say they knew all along such wisdom and loyalty
would be rewarded."
"If Gallus dies..." I shuddered.
"But you're not political."
"I was born 'political' and there is nothing I can do about it.
First Gallus, then me."
"I should think you were safest of all, the scholar-prince."
"No one is safe." I felt the cold that night as I have never felt
the cold before or since. I don't know what I should have done
without Oribasius. He was the first friend I ever had. He is still the
best friend I have, and I miss him here in Persia. Oribasius has
always been particularly useful in finding out things I would have
no way of knowing. People never speak candidly to princes, but
Oribasius could get anyone to tell him anything, a trick learned
practising medicine. He inspires confidences.
Within a day of our arrival at Ephesus, Oribasius had obtained
a full report on Gallus's life in the city. "He is feared. But he is
admired."
"For his beauty ?" I could not resist that. After all, I had spent
my childhood hopelessly beguiled by that golden creature.
"He shares his beauty rather liberally with the wives of the local
magnates."
"Naturally."
"He is thought to be intelligent."
"He is shrewd."
"Politically knowledgeable, very ambitious . . ."
"Yet unpopular and feared. Why ?"
"A bad temper, occasionally violent."
"Yes." I thought of the cedar grove at Macellum.
"People fear him. They don't know why."
"Poor Gallus." I almost meant it, too. "What do they say about
me?"
"They wish you would shave your beard."

[75]


"I thought it was looking rather decent lately. A bit like
Hadrian's." I rubbed the now full growth affectionately. Only the
colour displeased me: it was even lighter than the hair on my head,
which is light brown. To make the beard seem darker and glossier,
I occasionally rubbed oil in it. Nowadays, as I go grey, the beard
has mysteriously darkened. I am perfectly satisfied with the way
it looks. No one else is.
"They also wonder what you are up to."
"Up to? I should have thought it perfectly plain. I am a
student."
"We are Greeks in these parts." Oribasius grinned, looking very
Greek. "We never think anything is what it seems to be."
"Well, I am not about to subvert the state," I said gloomily. "My
only plot is how to survive."

In spite of himself, Ecebolius liked Oribasius. "Because we are
really disobeying the Chamberlain, you know. He fixed your house-
hold at a certain size and made no allowance for a physician."
"But Oribasius is a very special physician."
"Granted, he helped my fever and banished 'pain's cruel hand-
maid . . .'"
"He also has the advantage of being richer than I. He helps us
pay the bills."
"True. Sad truth." Ecebolius has a healthy respect for money,
and because of that I was able to keep Oribasius near me.
We were at Ephesus some days before I was able to see
Maximus. He was in retreat, communing with the gods. But we
received daily bulletins from his wife. Finally, on the eighth day,
at about the second hour, a slave arrived to say that Maximus
would be honoured to receive me that afternoon. I prevailed on
Ecebolius to allow me to make the visit alone. After much argu-
ment he gave in, but only on condition that I later write out for
him a full account of everything that was said.
Maximus lived in a modest house on the slopes of Mount Pion,
not far from the theatre which is carved out of its side. My guards
left me at the door. A servant then showed me into an inner
room where I was greeted by a thin, nervous woman.
"I am Placidia, wife of Maximus." She let go my robe whose
hem she had kissed. "We are so sorry my husband could not see
you earlier, but he has been beneath the earth, with the goddess
Cybele." She motioned to a slave who handed her a lighted torch

[76]


which she gave me. "My husband is still in darkness. He asks for
you to join him there."
I took the torch and followed Placidia to a room of the house
whose fourth wall was covered by a curtain which, when she
pulled it back, revealed the mountainside and an opening in the
rock. "You must go to him alone, most noble prince."
I entered the mountain. For what seemed hours (but must have
been only minutes), I stumbled towards a far-off gleam of light
which marked the end of the passageway. At last I arrived at
what looked to be a well-lit chamber cut in the rock, and filled
with smoke. Eagerly, I stepped forward and came up hard against
a solid wall, stubbing my toes. I thought I had gone mad. In front
of me was a room. But I could not enter it. Then I heard the beauti-
ful deep voice of Maximus: "See? The life of this world is all
illusion and only the gods are real."
I turned to my left and saw the chamber I thought I had seen in
front of me. The smoke was now gone. The room appeared to be
empty. Yet the voice sounded as if the speaker were close beside
me. "You tried to step into a mirror. In the same way, the ignorant
try to enter the land of the blessed, only to be turned away by their
own reflection. Without surrendering yourself, you may not
thread the labyrinth at whose end exists the One."
My right foot hurt. I was cold. I was both impressed and irritated
by the situation. "I am Julian," I said, "of the house of Con-
stantine."
"I am Maximus, of the house of all the gods." Then he appeared
suddenly at my elbow. He seemed to emerge from the rock.
Maximus is tall and well proportioned, with a beard like a grey
waterfall and the glowing eyes of a cat. He wore a green robe with
curious markings. He took my hand. "Come in," he said. "There
are wonders here."
The room was actually a natural grotto with stalactites hanging
from the ceiling and, at its centre, a natural pool of still dark water.
Beside the pool was a bronze statue of Cybele, showing the goddess
seated and holding in one hand the holy drum. Two stools were
the only furnishings in the cave. He invited me to sit down.
"You will go on many journeys," said Maximus. My heart sank.
He sounded like any soothsayer in the agora. "And I shall accom-
pany you to the end."
"I could hope for no better teacher," I said formally, somewhat
taken aback. He was presumptuous.
[77]


"Do not be alarmed, Julian . . ." He knew exactly what I was
thinking. "I am not forcing myself upon you. Quite the contrary.
I am being forced. Just as you are. By something neither of us can
control. Nor will it be easy, what we must do together. There is
great danger for both of us. Especially for me. I dread being your
teacher."
"But I had hoped . . ."
"I am your teacher," he concluded. "What is it that you would
most like to know 7""The truth."
"The truth of what ?"
"Where do we come from and where do we go to, and what
is the meaning of the journey ?"
"You are Christian." He said this carefully, making neither a
statement nor a question of it. Had there been a witness to this
scene, I must have allowed a door in my mind to shut. As it was,
I paused. I thought of Bishop George, interminably explaining
"similar" as opposed to "same". I heard the deacon chanting the
songs of Arius. I heard myself reading the lesson in the chapel at
Macellum. Then suddenly I saw before me the leather-bound testa-
ment Bishop George had given me: "Thou shalt not revile the
gods."
"No," said Maximus gravely. "For that way lies eternal dark-
BESS."
I was startled. "I said nothing."
"You quoted from the book of the Jews, from Exodus. 'Thou
shalt not revile the gods.'"
"But I said nothing."
"You thought it."
"You can see into my thoughts ?"
"When the gods give me the power, yes."
"Then look now, carefully, and tell me: am I Christian ?"
"I cannot speak for you, nor tell you what I see."
"I believe there does exist a first maker, an absolute power . . ."
"Was it the same god who spoke to Moses 'mouth to mouth' ?"
"So I have been taught."
"Yet that god was not absolute. He made the earth and heaven,
men and beasts. But according to Moses, he did not make dark-
ness or even matter, since the earth was already there before him,
invisible and without form. He was merely the shaper of what
already existed. Does one not prefer Plato's god, who caused this

[78]


universe to come 'into being as a living creature, possessing soul
and intelligence in very truth, both by the providence of god' ?"
"From the Timaeus," I said automatically.
"And then there is the confusion between the book of the Jews
and the book of the Nazarene. The god of the first is supposed to
be the god of the second. Yet in the second he is father of the
Nazarene..."
"By grace. They are of similar substance, but not the same."
Maximus laughed. "Well learned, my young Arian."
"I am Arian because I find it impossible to believe that God was
briefly a man executed for treason. Jesus was a prophet - a son of
God in some mysterious way- yes, but not the One GOd."
"Nor even his deputy, despite the efforts of the extraordinary
Paul of Tarsus, who tried to prove that the tribal god of the Jews
was the universal One GOd, even though every word Paul says is
contradicted by the Jewish holy book. In letters to the Romans and
to the Galatians, Paul declared that the god of Moses is the god not
only of Jews but also of Gentiles. Yet the Jewish book denies this
in a hundred places. As their god said to Moses: 'Israel is my son,
my first-born.' Now if this god of the Jews were indeed, as Paul
claimed, the One God, why then did he reserve for a single un-
important race the anointing, the prophets and the law? Why
did he allow the rest of mankind to exist thousands of years in
darkness, worshipping falsely ? Of course the Jews admit that he
is a 'jealous god'. But what an extraordinary thing for the absolute
to be ! Jealous of what ? And cruel, too, for he avenged the sins of
the fathers on guiltless children. Is not the creator described by
Homer and Plato more likely ? that there is one being who encom-
passes all life- is all life- and from this essential source emanate
gods, demons, men ? Or to quote the famous Orphic oracle which
the Galileans are beginning to appropriate for their own use, 'Zeus,
Hades, Helios, three gods in one Godhead'."
"From the One many . . ." I began, but with Maximus one
never needs to finish sentences. He anticipates the trend of one's
thought.
"How can the many be denied? Are all emotions alike? or does
each have characteristics peculiarly its own ? And if each race has
its own qualities, are not those god-given ? And, if not god-given,
would not these characteristics then be properly symbolized by a
specific national god? In the case of the Jews a jealous bad-
tempered patriarch. In the case of the effeminate, clever Syrians,

[79]


a god like Apollo. Or take the Germans and the Celts-who are
warlike and fierce - is it accident that they worship Ares, the war
god ? Or is it inevitable ? The early Romans were absorbed by law-
making and governing- their god ? the king of gods, Zeus. And
each god has many aspects and many names, for there is as much
variety in heaven as there is among men. Some have asked: did we
create these gods or did they create us ? That is an old debate.
Are we a dream in the mind of deity, or is each of us a separate
dreamer, evoking his own reality ? Though one may not know for
certain, all our senses tell us that a single creation does exist and
we are contained by it for ever. Now the Christians would impose
one final rigid myth on what we know to be various and strange.
No, not even myth, for the Nazarene existed as flesh while the
gods we worship were never men; rather they are qualities and
powers become poetry for our instruction. With the worship of
the dead Jew, the poetry ceased. The Christians wish to replace
our beautiful legends with the police record of a reforming Jewish
rabbi. Out of this unlikely material they hope to make a final
synthesis of all the religions ever known. They now appropriate
our feast days. They transform local deities into saints. They
borrow from our mystery rites, particularly those of Mithras. The
priests of Mirhas are called 'fathers'. So the Christians call their
priests 'fathers'. They even imitate the tonsure, hoping to impress
new converts with the familiar trappings of an older cult. Now
they have started to call the Nazarene 'saviour' and 'healer'. Why ?
Because one of the most beloved of our gods is Asklepios, whom
we call 'saviour' and 'healer'."
"But there is nothing in Mithras to equal the Christian mystery."
I argued for the devil. "What of the Eucharist, the taking of the
bread and wine, when Christ said, 'He who eats of my body and
drinks of my blood shall have eternal life'."
Maximus smiled. "I betray no secret of Mithras when I tell you
that we, too, partake of a symbolic meal, recalling the words of the
Persian prophet Zarathustra, who said to those who worshipped
the One God - and Mithras, 'He who eats of my body and drinks
of my blood, so that he will be made one with me and I with him,
the same shall not know salvation.' That was spoken six centuries
before the birth of the Nazarene."
I was stunned. "Zarathustra was a man . . . ?"
"A prophet. He was struck down in a temple by enemies. As he
lay dying, he said, 'May God forgive you even as I do.' No, there

[80]


is nothing sacred to us that the Galileans have not stolen. The
main task of their innumerable councils is to try to make sense
of all their borrowing. I don't envy them.""I have read Porphyry . . ." I began.
"Then you are aware of how the Galileans contradict them-
selves."
"But what of the contradictions in Hellenism ?"
"01d legends are bound to conflict. But then, we never think
of them as literally true. They are merely cryptic messages from
the gods, who in turn are aspects of the One. We know that we
must interpret them. Sometimes we succeed. Sometimes we fail.
But the Christians hold to the literal truth of the book which was
written about the Nazarene long after his death. Yet even that book
so embarrasses them that they must continually alter its meaning.
For instance, nowhere does it say that Jesus was God..."
"Except in John." I quoted: "'And the Word was made flesh,
and dwelt among us.'" I had not been five years a church reader
for nothing.
"That is open to interpretation. What precisely was meant by
'Word'? Is it really, as they now pretend, the holy spirit who is
also God who is also Jesus ? - which brings us again to that triple
impiety they call 'truth', which in turn reminds us that the most
noble Julian also wishes to know the truth."
"It is what I wish." I felt strange. The smoke from the torches
was thick in the room. All things now appeared indistinct and un-
real. Had the walls opened suddenly and the sun blazed down upon
us, I should not have been surprised. But Maximus practised no
magic that day. He was matter-of-fact.
"No one can tell another man what is true. Truth is all around
us. But each must find it in his own way. Plato is part of the truth.
So is Homer. So is the story of the Jewish god if one ignores its
arrogant claims. Truth is wherever man has glimpsed divinity.
Theurgy can achieve this awakening. Poetry can. Or the gods
themselves of their own volition can suddenly open our eyes."
"My eyes are shut."
"Yes."
"But I know what it is I want to find."
"But there is a wall in front of you, like the mirror you tried to
walk into."
I looked at him very hard. "Maximus, show me a door, and not
a mirror."

[8~]


~e

He was silent a long time. When he finally spoke, he did not
look at me. Instead he studied the face of Cybele. "You are
Christian."
"I am nothing."
"But you must be Christian, for that is the religion of your
family."
"I must appear to be Christian. Nothing more."
"You do not fear being a hypocrite ?"
"I fear not knowing the truth even more."
"Are you prepared to be admitted to the secret rites of
Mithras ?"
"Is that the way ?"
"It is a way. If you are willing to make the attempt, I can lead
you to the door. But you must cross through alone. I cannot help
you past the gate."
"And after I pass through ?"
"You will know what it is to die and to be born again."
"Then you shall be my teacher, Maximus. And my guide."
"Of course I shall be." He smiled. "It is our fate. Remember
what I said ? We have no choice, either of us. Fate has intervened.
Together we shall proceed to the end of the tragedy.""Tragedy ?"
"Human life is tragic: it ends in pain and death."
"But after the pain ? after the death ?"
"When you cross the threshold of Mithras, you will know what
it is like to be beyond tragedy, to be beyond what is human, to be
one with God."

?riscus: Interesting to observe Maximus in action. He was clever.
I would have guessed that at their first meeting he would have
done tricks. Made the statue of Cybele dance. Something like that.
But no. He gives a shrewd attack on Christianity. Then he offers
Julian Mithras, a religion bound to appeal to our hero. Mithras
was always the favourite deity of Roman emperors, and of many
soldiers to this day. Also, Maximus knew that he would be sure of
a special relationship to Julian if he were the one who sponsored
him during the rites.
There is now no doubt in my mind that at this point in Julian's
life almost any of the mystery cults would have got him free of
Christianity. He was eager to make the break. Yet it is hard to say
quite why, since his mind tended to magic and superstition in pre-

[82]


cisely the same way the Christian mind does. Admittedly their
worship of corpses did not appeal to him, but he was later to find
manifestations of "the One" in even order places. Had Julian been
what he thought he was - a philosopher in the tradition of Plato-
one might have understood his dislike of the Christian nonsense.
He would have been like you and me. But Julian was concerned,
finally, with the idea of personal immortality, the one obsession
Christians share with those who are drawn to the old mystery
cults.
Despite everything Julian wrote on the subject, I have never
understood precisely why he turned against the religion of his
family. After all, Christianity offered him nearly everything he
needed. If he wanted to partake symbolically of the body of a god,
why not remain with the Christians and eat their bread and drink
their wine instead of reverting to the bread and wine of Mithras ?
It is not as if there was anything lacking in Christianity. The
Christians have slyly incorporated most of the popular elements
of Mithras and Demeter and Dionysos into their own rites. Modern
Christianity is an encyclopedia of traditional superstition.
I suspect the origin of Julian's disaffection is in his family. Con-
stantius was a passionate Christian, absorbed by doctrinal disputes.
With good reason, Julian hated Constanfius. Therefore, he hated
Christianity. This puts the matter far too simply, yet I always tend
to the obvious view of things since it is usually the correct one,
though of course one can never get to the bottom of anything so
mysterious as another man's character, and there is a mystery
here.
Julian was Christian in everything except his tolerance of
others. He was what the Christians would call a saint. Yet he
swung fiercely away from the one religion which suited him
perfectly, preferring its eclectic origins, which he then tried to
systematize into a new combination quite as ridiculous as the
synthesis he had rejected. It is a strange business and there is no
satisfactory explanation for Julian's behaviour. Of course he
claimed that Bishop George's partisanship disgusted him as a boy,
and that Porphyry and Plotinus opened his eyes to the absurdity
of Christian claims. Well and good. But then why turn to some-
thing equally absurd ? Granted, no educated man can accept the
idea of a Jewish rebel as god. But having rejected that myth, how
can one then believe that the Persian hero-god Mithras was born of
light striking rock, on December 25th, with shepherds watching
[83]



his birth? (I am told that the Christians have just added those
shepherds to the birth of Jesus.) Or that Mithras lived in a fig
tree which fed and clothed him, that he fought with the sun's first


his birth? (I am told that the Christians have just added those
shepherds to the birth of Jesus.) Or that Mithras lived in a fig
tree which fed and clothed him, that he fought with the sun's first
creation, the bull, that he was dragged by it (thus symbolizing
man's suffering) until the bull escaped; finally, at the command of
the sun god, Mithras stabs the bull with a knife and from the
beast's body come flowers, herbs, wheat; from the blood, wine;
from the seed, the first man and woman. Then Mithras is called up
to heaven, after celebrating a sacramental last supper. Time's end
will be a day of judgment when all will rise from their graves and
evil will be destroyed while the good will live for ever in the light
of the sun.
Between the Mithraic story and its Christian sequel I see no
essential difference. Admittedly, the Mithraic code of conduct is
more admirable than the Christian. Mithraists believe that right
action is better than contemplation. They fayour old-fashioned
virtues like courage and self-restraint. They were the first to teach
that strength is gentleness. All of this is rather better than the
Christian hysteria which vacillates between murder of heretics on
the one hand and a cringing rejection of this world on the other.
Nor can a Mithraist be absolved of sin by a sprinkle of water.
Ethically, I find Mithras the best of all the mystery cults. But it is
absurd to say it is any more "true" than its competitors. When one
becomes absolute about myth and magic, the result can only be
madness.
Julian speaks continually of his love of Hellenism. He honestly
believed he loved Plato and reasonable discourse. Actually, what
he craved was what so many desire in this falling time: assurance
of personal immortality. He chose to reject the Christian way for
reasons which I find obscure, while settling on an equal absurdity.
Of course I am sympathetic to him. He dealt the Christians some
good blows and that delighted me. But I cannot sympathize with
his fear of extinction. Why is it so important to continue after
death ? We never question the demonstrable fact that before birth
we did not exist, so why should we fear becoming once more what
we were to begin with ? I am in no hurry to depart. But I look on
nothing as just that: no thing. How can one fear no thing ?
As for the various ceremonies and trials the Mithraic initiate
must undergo, the less said the better. I understand that one of the
twelve tortures is the pulling out one by one of the pubic hairs, a
most spiritual discipline. I was also told that part of the ceremonies

[84]


are conducted while everyone is roaring drunk and trying to jump
over ditches blindfolded, a symbol no doubt of the bewildering
life of the flesh. But men are impressed by secret rites, the more
gruesome and repellent the better. How sad we are, how terrified
to be men!

Libanius: It is not often one finds a philosopher so entirely lacking
in the religious sense. It is like being born unable to perceive
colours which are plain to everyone else. Priscus does have a
logical mind and a precise way of stating things, but he is blind to
what truly matters. Like Julian, I was admitted to the Mithraic
rites during my student days. The impression the mysteries made
on me was profound, though I confess that the effect was not as
revealing- for me-as it was for Julian. But I had never been a
Christian, so I was not making a dramatic and dangerous break
with the world I belonged to. However, for Julian it was a brave
thing to do. Had Constantius learned of what he had done, it might
have cost him his life. Fortunately, Maximus managed the affair so
skilfully that Constantius never knew that at the age of nineteen
his cousin ceased to be a Christian, in a cave beneath Mount Pion.
Priscus seems to have missed the point of the Mithraic mysteries,
which does not surprise me. Priscus applauds our high ethical
standards. We are grateful to him. But he finds the rites "repel-
lent". Of course he knows about them only by hearsay, since no
one who has been initiated may recount what happens in the cave.
But though the "trials" are often disagreeable, the revelation is
worth all the pain that one has borne. I for one cannot imagine a
world without Mithras.
Priscus observes with his usual harsh candour that the Christians
are gradually absorbing various aspects of the cult. A thought sud-
denly occurs to me: might not this be the way in which we finally
conquer? Is it not possible that the absorber will become so like
the absorbed that in time they will be us ?

Julian Augustus
In March 35x, I was admitted to the mysteries of Mithras. On
that day I watched the rising of the sun; and I watched its setting,
taking care to be unobserved, for since Constantius had made it
illegal to pray to the sun, people had even been arrested for watch-
ing a sunset. Spies and informers were everywhere.
I had told Ecebolius that I intended to.spend the day hunting on


the slopes of Mount Pion. Since he hated hunting, he excused him-
self as I knew he would. He quoted Homer. I quoted Horace. He
quoted Virgil. I quoted Theocritus. Together we used up nearly all
of literature's references to hunting.
The next obstacle was the bodyguard. Twelve soldiers and one
officer were assigned to my household. At all times I was attended
by at least two men. What to do about them ? It was Maximus who
decided that since Mithras is the soldier's religion, at least two of
the soldiers should prove sympathetic. Maximus was fight. Of the
twelve, five were Mithraists. It was then an easy matter to get two
of the five assigned to me for the day. As Mithraic brothers, they
were under the seal of secrecy.
An hour before dawn, Oribasius, the soldiers and I left the house.
At the mountain's edge we were met by Maximus and nine fathers.
In silence we climbed the slope. At a pre-ordained spot, beneath a
fig tree, we stopped and waited for the sun to rise.
The sky turned pale. The morning star shone blue. Dark clouds
broke. Then just as the sun appeared on the horizon, a single shaft
of light struck the rock behind us and I realized that it was not
just ordinary rock, but a door into the mountainside. We prayed
then to the sun and to his companion Mithras, our saviour.
When the sun was at last above the horizon, Maximus opened
the door into the mountain and we entered a small cave with seats
carved out of the rock. Here Oribasius and I were told to wait
while the fathers of Mithras withdrew into yet another cave, the
inner sanctuary. Thus began the most momentous day of my life.
The day of the honey and of the bread and the wine; the day of
the seven gates and the seven planets; the day of challenges and of
passwords; the day of prayer and, at its end (past Raven, Bride,
Soldier, Lion, Persian, Courier of the Sun, and Father), the day of
Nama Nama $ebesio.

Libanius: Of all the mysteries, excepting those at Eleusis, the
Mithraic is the most inspiring, for in the course of it one actually
experiences the folly of earthly vanity. At each of the seven
stages, the initiate acts out what his soul will one day experience
as it rises amongst the seven spheres, losing one by one its human
faults. At Ares, the desire for war returns to its source; at Zeus,
ambition is lost; at Aphrodite, sex, and so on until the soul is
purged. Then... But I can say no more. Nama Nama Sebesio.

[86]



]uIian Augustus
When the day ended, Oribasius and I stumbled from the cave,
born again.
It was then that it happened. As I looked at the setting sun, I was
possessed by light. What is given to few men was given to me. I
saw the One. I was absorbed by Helios and my veins coursed not
with blood but light.
I saw it all. I saw the simplicity at the heart of creation. The
thing which is impossible to grasp without the help of divinity, for
it is beyond language and beyond mind: yet it is so simple that I
marvelled at how one could not have known what is always there,
a part of us iust as we are part of it. What happened inside the
cave was a testing and a learning, but what happened to me out-
side the cave was revelation.
I saw the god himself as I knelt among sage bushes, the red
slanting sunlight full in my face. I heard that which cannot be
written or told and I saw that which cannot be recorded in words
or images. Yet even now, years later, it is as vivid in retrospect as
it was at the time. For I was chosen on that steep mountain-
side to do the great work in which I am now engaged: the
restoration of the worship of the One God, in all his beautiful
singularity.
I remained kneeling until the sun was gone. Then I knelt in dark-
ness for what I am told was an hour. I knelt until Oribasius became
alarmed and awakened me... or put me to sleep, for the "real"
world ever since has seemed to me the dream while my vision of
Helios is the reality.
"Are you all right ?"
I nodded and got to my feet. "I have seen..." But I stopped.
I could not say what I had seen. Even now, writing this memoir, I
cannot describe what I experienced since there is nothing com-
parable in ordinary human experience.
But Maximus immediately recognized what had happened to
me. "He has been chosen," he said. "He knows."
Silently we returned to the city. I did not want to talk to any-
one, not even to Maximus, for I was still enfolded by wings of
light. Even the back of my hand where I had received the sacred
tattoo did not hurt me. But at the city gate my absorption was
rudely shattered by a large crowd which surrounded me, shouting,
"Great news !"
I was bewildered. All I could think was: has the god remained

D                                               [87]


with me ? is what I saw visible to all ? I tried to speak to Maximus
and Oribasius but we could not make ourselves heard.
At the prefect's house, I found Ecebolius with the town prefect
and what looked to be the whole council. When they saw me, they
fell to their knees. For an instant I thought it was indeed the end
of the world and that I had been sent as messenger to separate the
good from the bad. But Ecebolius quickly dispelled all thought of
apocalypse.
"Most noble Julian, your brother . . ." All about us, men began
to repeat Gallus's names and titles. "... has been raised by the
divine Augustus to share with him the purple. Gallus is Caesar in
the East. He is also to be married to Constantia, divine sister of the
divine Augustus !"
There was loud cheering and eager hands touched my robe, my
hands, my arms. Favours were requested, blessings demanded.
Finally, I broke through the mob and got inside the house.
"But why are they all behaving like lunatics?" I turned on
Ecebolius, as though it were his fault.
"Because you are now the brother of a reigning Caesar."
"Much good it will do them . . . or me." This was unwise, but
it relieved me to say it.
"Surely you don't want them to love you for yourself?"
Oribasius teased me. "You quite enjoyed the attention, until you
heard the news."
"Only because I thought it was the sun . . ." I stopped myself
just in time.
"The sun ?" Ecebolius looked puzzled.
"Only the son of God should be treated in this fashion," said
Maximus smoothly. "Men should not worship other men, not even
princes."
Ecebolius nodded. "A relic of the bad old days, I'm afraid. The
Augustus of Rome is of course 'divine' though not truly a god as
men used to think. But come in, come in. The baths are ready. And
the prefect is giving us a banquet to celebrate the good news."
So I beheld the One God on the same day that I learned my
brother had been made Caesar. The omen was plain enough. Each
was now set in his destiny. From that day on I was Hellenist or,
as the Gallleans like to call me (behind my back, of course!),
apostate. And Gallus reigned in the East.

[88]


"Naturally the Caesar is concerned."
"But without cause."
"Without cause ? You are a pupil of Maximus."
"I am also a pupil of Ecebolius."
"But he has not been with you for a year. Your brother feels
that you are in need of a spiritual guide, especially now.""But Maximus is responsible."
"Maximus is not a Christian. Are you?" The question came at
me like a stone from a sling. I stared a long moment at the black-
robed Deacon Aetius of Antioch. He stared serenely back. I was
close to panic. What did they know of me at Gallus's court ?
"How can you doubt that I am a Christian ?" I said finally. "I
was instructed by two great bishops. I am a church reader. I attend
every important church ceremony here at Pergamon." I looked at
him, simulating righteousness doubted. "Where could such a
rumour get started ? If there is such a rumour."
"You cannot be seen too often in the company of a man like
Maximus without people wondering.""What shall I do?"
"Give him up." The answer was prompt.
"Is that my brother's order ?"
"It is my suggestion. Your brother is concerned. That is all. He
sent me here to question you. I have.""Are you satisfied ?"
Aetius smiled. "Nothing ever satisfies me, most noble Julian. But
I shall tell the Caesar that you are a regular communicant of the
church. I shall also tell him that you will no longer study with
Maximus."
"If that is the wisest course, then that is the course I shall take."
This ambiguity seemed to satisfy Aetius. My friends often tell me
that I might have made a good lawyer.
As I escorted Aetius to the street, he looked about him and said,
'The owner of this house...'"... is Oribasius."
"An excellent physician."
'Is it wise for me to see him ?" I could not resist this.

[89]


"A highly suitable companion," said Aetius smoothly. He
paused at the door to the street. "Your brother, the Caesar, often
wonders why you do not come to visit him at Antioch. He feels
that court life might have a . . . 'polishing' effect upon you. The
word is his, not mine."
"I'm afraid I was not made for a court, even one as celebrated
as my brother's. I resist all attempts to polish me, and I detest
politicians."
"A wise aversion."
"And a true one. I want only to live as I do, as a student."
"Studying to what end ?"
"To know myself. What else ?"
"Yes. What else?" Aetius got into his carriage. "Be very care-
ful, most noble Julian. And remember: a prince has no friends.
Ever."
"Thank you, Deacon."
Aetius departed. I went back into the house. Oribasius was wait-
ing for me.
"You heard every word?" I hardly made a question of it.
Oribasius and I have never had any secrets between us. On
principle, he eavesdrops.
"We've been indiscreet, to say the least."
I nodded. I was gloomy. "I suppose I shall have to stop seeing
Maximus, at least for a while."
"You might also insist that he not talk to everyone about his
famous pupil."
I sighed. I knew that Maximus tended- tends- to trade on his
relationship with me. Princes get very used to that. I don't resent
it. In fact, I am happy if my friends prosper as a result of knowing
me. I had learned Oribasius's lesson, and I do not expect to be
loved for myself. After all, I don't love others for themselves,
only for what they can teach me. Since nothing is free, to each
his price.
I summoned a secretary and wrote Maximus asking him to
remain at Ephesus until further notice. I also wrote a note to the
bishop of Pergamon to tell him that I would read the lesson on the
following Sunday.
"Hypocrite," said Oribasius when the secretary had gone
"A tong-lived hypocrite is preferable to a dead . . . what ?" I
often have trouble finishing epigrams. Or rather I start one with-
out having first thought through to the end, a bad habit.

[9ř]



"A dead reader. Aetius has a good deal of influence with Gallus,
hasn't he?"
"So they say. He is his confessor. But who can control my
brother?" Without thinking, I had lowered my voice to a whisper.
For Gallus had become as suspicious of treason as Constantius. His
spies were everywhere.
I blame Gallus's wife Constantia for the overt change in his
character. She was Constantius's sister and took it for granted that
conspiracy is the natural business of the human race. I never met
this famous lady but I am told that she was as cruel as Gallus, and
far more intelligent. She was also ambitious, which he was not. He
was quite content to remain Caesar in the East. But she wanted him
to be the Augustus and she plotted the death of her own brother
to achieve this end. As for Gallus, even now I cannot bear to write
about his reign.

?riscus: I can. And you certainly can! After all, you were living
at Antioch while that little beast was Caesar.
Curiously enough, Julian almost never mentioned Gallus to me,
or to anyone. I have always had a theory - somewhat borne out by
the memoir - that Julian was unnaturally attracted to his brother.
He continually refers to his beauty. He also tends to write of him
in that hurt tone one uses to describe a lover who has been cold.
Julian professes to find mysterious what everyone else found only
too obvious: Gallus's cruelty. Julian was naive, as I find myself
continually observing (if I repeat myself, do forgive me and blame
it on our age).
Actually, the member of the family for whom I have the most
sympathy is Constantius. He was quite a good ruler, you know.
We tend to undervalue him because his intelligence was of the
second rank, and his religious mania troubling. But he governed
well, considering that he had problems of a sort which might have
made any man a monster. He made some of his worst mistakes for
the best of reasons, like creating Gallus Caesar.
It is significant that Julian blames Gallus's wife for the reign of
terror in the East. I had always thought that they were equally
to blame. But you lived through what must have been a terrible
time. You doubtless know who was responsible for what.

Libanius: Yes, I do know. At the beginning, we all had great
hopes for Gallus. I recall vividly Gallus's first appearance before


the senate of Antioch. How hopeful we were! He was indeed as
handsome as men say, though that day he was suffering from a
heat rash, as fair people sometimes do in our sultry climate. But
despite a mottled face, he carried himself well. He looked as one
born to rule. He made us a most graceful speech. Afterwards, I
was presented to him by my old friend Bishop Meletius.
"Oh, yes." Gallus frowned. "You are that teacher-fellow who
denies God."
"I deny God nothing, Caesar. My heart is open to him at all
times."
"Libanius is really most admirable, Caesar." Meletius always
enjoyed making me suffer.
"I am sure he is." Then Gallus gave me a smile so dazzling
that I was quite overwhelmed. "Come see me," he said, "and I
shall personally convert you."
A few weeks later, to my surprise, I received an invitation to
the palace. When I arrived at the appointed hour, I was shown
into a large room where, side by side on a couch, lay Gallus and
Constantia.
In the centre of the room two nude boxers were pummelling
one another to death. When I had recovered from my first shock
at this indecent display, I tried to make my presence known. I
coughed. I mumbled a greeting. But I was ignored. Gallus and
Constantia were completely absorbed by the bloody spectacle.
As the world knows, I hate gladiatorial demonstrations because
they reduce men to the level of beasts - and I do not mean those un-
fortunates who are forced to perform. I mean those who watch.
I was particularly shocked by Constantia. It was hard to realize
that this bright-eyed unwomanly spectator was the daughter of
Constantine the Great, sister of the Augustus, wife of the Caesar.
She seemed more like an unusually cruel courtesan. Yet she was
distinguished-looking in the Flavian way- big jaw, large nose,
grey eyes. As we watched the sweating, bloody men, she would
occasionally shout to one or the other, "Kill him !" Whenever
a particularly effective blow was dealt, she would gasp in a
curiously intimate way, like a woman in the sexual act. Con-
stantia was most alarming.
We watched those boxers until one man finally killed the
other. As the loser fell, Gallus leapt from his couch and threw
his arms around the bloody victor, as though he had done him
some extraordinary service. Then Gallus began to kick the dead

[92]


man, laughing and shouting gleefully. He looked perfectly de-
ranged. I have never seen a man's face quite so revealing of the
beast within.
"Stop it, Gallus!" Constantia had noticed me at last. She was
on her feet.
"What?" He looked at her blankly. Then he saw me. "Oh,
yes," he said. He straightened his tunic. Slaves came forward and
removed the dead boxer. Constantia approached me with a radiant
smile. "How happy we are to see the famous Libanius here, in
our palace." I saluted her formally, noticing with some surprise
that her normal voice was low and musical, and that her Greek
was excellent. In an instant she had transformed herself from
Fury to queen.
Gallus came forward and gave me his hand to kiss. I got blood
on my lips.
"Good, very good," he said, eyes unfocused like a man drunk.
Then without another word, the Caesar of the East and his queen
swept past me and that was the end of the only private audience
1 was ever to have with either of them. I was most unnerved.
During the next few years the misdeeds of the couple were
beyond anything since Caligula. To begin with, they were both
eager for money. To further her political objectives Constantia
needed all the gold she could amass. She tried everything: black-
mail, the sale of public offices, confiscation. One of her fund-
raising attempts involved a family I knew. It was a peculiar
situation. When the daughter married an extremely handsome
youth from Alexandria, her mother, an ordinarily demure
matron- or so we all thought- promptly fell in love with him.
For a year she tried unsuccessfully to seduce her son-in-law.
Finally, he told her that if she did not stop importuning him, he
would return to Alexandria. Quite out of her mind with rage, the
woman went to Constantia and offered that noble queen a small
fortune for the arrest and execution of her son-in-law. Constantia
took the money; and the unfortunate youth was executed on a
trumped-up charge. Then Constantia, who was not without a cer-
tain bitter humour, sent the matron her son-in-law's genitals with
the brief note: "At last!" The woman lost her mind. Antioch
was scandalized. And the days of terror began.
At times it seemed almost as if Gallus and Constantia had
deliberately studied the lives of previous monsters with an eye to
recreating old deeds of horror. Nero used to roam the streets at


night with a band of rowdies, pretending he was an ordinary
young buck on the town. So did Gallus. Caligula used to ask
people what they thought of the emperor and if their answer
was unflattering, he would butcher them on the spot. 5o did
Gallus. Or tried to. Unfortunately for him, Antioch - unlike early
imperial Rome-has the most elaborate street lighting in the
world. Our night is like noon in most cities, so Gallus was almost
always recognized. As a result, the praetorian prefect of the East,
Thalassios, was able to persuade him that not only was it un-
becoming for a Caesar to rove the streets at night, it was also
dangerous. Gallus abandoned his prowling.
During Gallus's third year as Caesar, there was a famine in
Syria. When the food shortages at Antioch began, Gallus tried to
fix prices at a level which would make it possible for everyone to
buy grain. Even wise rulers from time to time make this mistake.
It never works since the result is usually the precise opposite of
the one intended. Grain is either held back from the market or
bought up by speculators who resell it at a huge profit, increasing
the famine. Men are like this and there is nothing to be done
about them. The senate of Antioch has many faults, but its mem-
bers are sound businessmen with an understanding of the market
which is their life. They warned Gallus of the dangers of his
policy. He ordered them to obey him. When they continued to
resist him, he sent his own guards into the senate chamber,
arrested the leading senators and condemned them to death.
Antioch has reason to be grateful to both Thalassios and
Nebridius, the Count of the East. These two brave men told Gallus
that if he went through with the executions, they would appeal
to the Augustus and demand the Caesar's removal. It was a brave
thing to do, and to everyone's surprise they carried the day.
Gallus released the senators, and that was the end of the matter.
For some months Antioch was relieved to know that in Thalassios
the city had a defender. But then Thalassios died of fever. Of
course it was rumoured that he had been poisoned, but I happen
to know that it was indeed the fever that he died of, as we
shared the same doctor. But I do not mean to write the history
of Gallus, which is so well known.

Julian Augustus
After Aetius's visit to me, I met Maximus only in secret. I
arranged this by seeing to it that the guards who accompanied me

[94]


were brothers in Mithras. I don't think I was once betrayed during
the three years I lived with Oribasius at Pergamon. I also made
a point of becoming a friend of the bishop of the city. With him,
I observed every Galilean festival. I hated myself for this decep-
tion, but I had no choice.
During these years, I was free to travel wherever I pleased in the
East. I could even visit Constantinople, though the Chamberiain's
office suggested tactfully that I not live there since it was, after
all, the imperial capital without, at present, an emperor in resi-
dence, which meant that any visit I chose to make could be con-
strued as . . . I understood perfectly and stayed away.
My request for permission to go to Athens was rejected. I don't
know why. Gallus sent me several invitations to come to Antioch,
but I was always able to avoid accepting them. I think he was
relieved not to have me near him. However, he was most conscien-
tious in his role as older brother and guardian, not to mention
ruler. I received weekly bulletins from him asking about my
spiritual health. He was eager, he said, for me to be a devout and
good man, like himself. I think he was perfectly sincere in his
exhortations. His fault was a common one. He simply did not
know what he was; he saw no flaw in himself, a not unusual blind-
ness and preferable, on the whole, to being unable to find any
virtue in oneself.
My friendship with Oribasius is the only intimate one I have
ever had- the result, I suppose, of having never known the
ordinary life of a family. Oribasius is both friend and brother,
even though we are not much alike in disposition. He is sceptical
and experimental, interested only in the material world. I am the
opposite. He balances me. Or tries to. And I think at times I give
him some inkling of what the metaphysical is like. For nearly four
years we lived together, travelled together, studied together. We
even shared a mistress for a time, though this caused some dis-
turbance since I found, to my surprise, that I have a jealous nature.
I had never forgiven the Antiochene at Macellum for preferring
Gallus to me. Yet I should have. After all, Gallus was older and
handsomer than I. Even so, I had been resentful. I did not realize
to what extent, until I was again put in exactly the same situation.
One afternoon I overheard Oribasius and our mutual mistress- a
blue-eyed Gaul- making love. I heard their heavy breathing. I
heard the leather thongs of the bed creak. Suddenly I wanted to
murder them both. I knew then exactly what it was like to be

[95]


Gallus, and I almost fainted at the violence of my own response.
But the moment quickly passed and I was filled with shame.
During those years, Maximus taught me many things. He
showed me mysteries. He made it possible for me to contemplate
the One. He was the perfect teacher. Also, contrary to legend, he
did not in any way try to excite my ambition. We never spoke of
my becoming emperor. It was the one forbidden subject.

?riscus: This is simply not true. From certain things both Julian
and Maximus said to me, I know that they were busy plotting to
make Julian emperor. Maximus was not about to waste his time
on a minor prince, nor was Oribasius - even though his friendship
with Julian was genuine, or as genuine as anyone's relations can
ever be with a prince.
I have been told of at least one s~ance where Maximus was
advised by one of his invisible friends that Julian was destined to
become emperor. I also know that Sosipatra and a number of other
magicians were secret partisans. Of course after Julian became
emperor, every magician in Asia claimed to have had a hand in
his success. I can't think why Julian wanted to deny what so
many of us know to have been true. Perhaps to discourage others
from plotting against him, as he plotted against Constantius.

Libanius: "Plotted" is the wrong word, though of course Julian is
disingenuous in his narrative. I agree with Priscus that Maximus
and Oribasius were already looking forward to the day when their
friend would be, if not Augustus, at least Caesar. I am also per-
fectly certain that Maximus consulted forbidden oracles, and all
the rest. $osipatra told me as much a few years ago: "The goddess
Cybele always favoured Julian, and said so. We were all so grateful
to her for her aid."
But I strongly doubt that there was any political plot. How
could there be ? Julian had very little money. He was guarded by
a detachment of household troops whose commander was directly
answerable to the Grand Chamberlain. Also, I do not believe that
Julian at this point wanted the principate. He was a devoted
student. He was terrified of the court. He had never commanded a
single soldier in war or peace. How could he then, at the age of
twenty, dream of becoming emperor ? Or rather he might "dream"
- in fact we know that he did - but he could hardly have planned
to take the throne.

[96]


]ulian Augustus
In the autumn of 353, Gallus made a state visit to Pergamon. It
was the first time we had met since we were boys at Macellum. I
stood with the town prefect and the local dignitaries in front of
the senate house and watched Gallus receive the homage of the
city.
During the five years since we had seen one another, I had be-
come a man with a full beard. But Gallus had remained exactly
as he was, the beautiful youth whom all admired. I confess that I
had a return of the old emotion when he embraced me formally
and I looked once again into those familiar blue eyes. What was
the old emotion ? A loss of will, I should say. Whatever he wanted
me to do I would do. Gallus, by existing, robbed me of strength.
"We are pleased to see once again our beloved and most noble
brother." Gallus had by now completely assumed the imperial
manner. Before I could reply, Gallus had turned to the b'lshop of
Pergamon. "He is, we have heard, a pillar of the true church."
"Indeed, Caesar, the most noble Julian is a worthy son of holy
church." I was extremely grateful to the bishop. Also, I was rather
pleased that my efforts to appear a devout Galilean had been so
successful.
Gallus then made a graceful speech to the city fathers, who were
so charmed by him that they were obviously puzzled at how this
enchanting creature had ever got the reputation of being a cruel
and frivolous despot. Gallus could charm anyone, even me.
That night a dinner was given him at the prefect's palace. He
behaved himself quite well, though I noticed that he did not cut
his wine with water. As a result, he was drunk by the end of the
evening. Yet he maintained his dignity and only a slight slow-
ness of speech betrayed his state. Though I sat beside him during
dinner, he did not speak to me once. All his efforts were bent on
delighting the city prefect. 1 was miserable, wondering in what
way I had managed to offend him. Oribasius, who sat across the
room with the minor functionaries of the court, winked at me
encouragingly. But I was not encouraged.
The dinner ended, Gallus suddenly turned to me and said, "You
come with me." And so I followed him as he moved through the
bowing courtiers to his bedroom, where two eunuchs were waiting
for him.
I had never before seen the etiquette of a Caesar's bedchamber
and I watched, fascinated, as the eunuchs, murmuring ceremonial

[97]


!

phrases, undressed Gallus while he lolled in an ivory chair, com-
pletely unaware of them. He was without self-consciousness or
modesty. When he was completely undressed, he waved them away
with the command "Bring us wine!" Then while the wine was
served us, he talked to me or rather at me. In the lamplight his
face glowed red from drink and the blond hair looked white as
it fell across his brow. The body, I noticed, though still beautifully
shaped, was beginning to grow thick at the belly.
"Constantia wants to know you. She talks of you often. But of
course she couldn't come here. One of us must always be at
Antioch. Spies. Traitors. No one is honest. Do you realize that?
No one. You can never trust anyone, not even your own flesh and
blood."
I tried to protest loyalty at this point. But Gallus ignored me.
"All men are evil. I found that out early. They are born in sin,
live in sin, die in sin. Only God can save us. I pray that he will
save me." Gallus made the sign of a cross on his bare chest.
"But it is a fine thing in an evil world to be Caesar. From here?
he indicated a height, "you can see them all. You can see them at
their games. But they can't see you. Sometimes at night, I walk the
streets in disguise. I listen to them. I watch them, knowing I can
do anything to them I want and no one can touch me. If I want
to rape a woman or kill a man in an alley, I can. Sometimes I do."
He frowned. "But it is evil. I know it. I try not to. Yet I feel that
when I do these things there is something higher which acts
rhrout/h me. I am a child of God. Unworthy as I am, he created
me and to him I shall return. What I am, he wanted me to be.
That is why I am good."
I must say I was stunned by this particular self-estimate. But my
face showed only respectful interest.
"I build churches. I establish religious orders. I stamp out heresy
wherever I find it. I am an active agent for the good. I must be.
It is what I was born for. I can hardly believe you are my brother."
He shifted his thought without a pause. He looked at me for the
first time. The famous blue eyes were bloodshot in the full lamp-
light.
"Half-brother, Gallus."
"Even so. We are the same blood, which is what matters. That
is what binds me to Constantius. And you to me. We are the chosen
of God to do the work of his church on earth."
At this point an extraordinarily pretty girl slipped quietly into

[98]


the room. Gallus did not acknowledge her presence, so neither dirt
I. He continued to talk and drink, while she made love to him in
front of me. I suppose it was the most embarrassing moment of my
life. I tried not to watch. I looked at the ceiling. I looked at the
floor. But my eyes continually strayed back to my brother as he
reclined on the couch, hardly moving, as the girl with infinite skill
and delicacy served him.
"Constantius will do anything I ask him. That is what blood
means. He will also listen to his sister, my wife. She is the most
important woman in the world. A perfect wife, a great queen."
He shifted his position on the couch so that his legs were spread
apart.
"I hope you marry well. You could, you know. Constantius
has another sister, Helena. She's much older than you, but that
makes no difference when it is a matter of blood. Perhaps he will
marry you to her. Perhaps he will even make you a Caesar, like
me. Would that please you ?"
I almost missed the question, my eyes riveted on what the girl
was doing. Oribasius says that I am a prude. I suppose he is right.
I know that I was sweating with nervous tension as I watched the
ravishing of Gallus. "No," I stammered. "I have no wish to be
Caesar. Only a student. I am perfectly happy."
"Everyone lies," said Gallus sadly. "Even you. Even flesh and
blood. But there's very little chance of your being raised up. Very
little. I have the East, Constantius the West. You are not needed.
Do you have girls in your household ?""One." My voice broke nervously.
"One t" He shook his head wonderingly. "And your friend ? The
one you live with ?""Oribasius."
"Is he your lover ?"
"No!"
"I wondered. It's perfectly all right. You're not Hadrian. What
you do doesn't matter. Though if you like boys, I suggest you keep
to slaves. It's politically dangerous to have anything to do with a
man of your own class."
"I am not interested..." I began, but he continued right through
me.
"Slaves are always best. Particularly stableboys and grooms."
The blue eyes flashed suddenly: for an instant his face was trans-
figured by malice. He wanted me to recall what I had seen that
[99]


day in the clearing. "But suit yourself. Anyway, my only advice to
you, my only warning to you, not only as your brother but as
your ruler . . ." He stopped suddenly and took a deep breath.
The girl had finished. She got to her feet and stood in front of him,
head bowed. He smiled, charmingly. Then he reached up and with
all his strength struck her full in the face. She staggered back, but
made no sound. Then at a gesture from him, she withdrew.
Gallus turned to me as though nothing had happened and picked
up his sentence where he had left off. "... under no circum-
stances are you to see this magician Maximus. There are already
enough rumours that you may have lost your faith. I know that
you haven't. How could you ? We are of the house of Constantine
the Great, the equal of the Apostles. We are the chosen of God.
But even so . . ." He yawned. He lay back on the couch. "Even
so . . ." he repeated and shut his eyes. I waited a moment for him
to continue. But he was asleep.
The eunuchs reappeared. One placed a silk coverlet over Gallus.
The other removed the wine. They acted as though what I had
witnessed was a perfectly ordinary evening; perhaps it was. As
Gatlus began drunkenly to snore, I tiptoed from the room.

Priscus: I always thought Julian might have been a happier man
had he been a bit more like Gallus. No one can say that Gallus
did not enjoy himself. His was an exemplary life of complete self-
indulgence. I could not be more envious of him.

Libanius: Obviously Priscus has found his ideal.
Within months of the state visit to Pergamon, Gallus fell. For
two years the Emperor had been receiving disquieting reports
about Gallus. Nebridius had told him bluntly that if Gallus were
not removed as Caesar there would be civil war in Syria. In his
last letter to Constantius, Thalassios had said much the same
thing.
One final incident brought matters to a head. The food shortage
had grown worse. The lower classes were rioting. Having failed
at price fixing, Gallus determined to leave Antioch as quickly as
possible. As pretext, he announced that he was planning to invade
Persia (though he did not have sufficient troops to conquer a mud
village on the Nile).
The day Gallus left the city, the senate met him in front of the
memorial to Julius Caesar. A considerable crowd had also turned

[IOO]



out to see him, but they were not interested in saying farewell to
their Caesar. They wanted food, and they said so. They made the
most terrible racket. I know. I was there. I have never seen such
an angry mob. Behind a row of household troops with drawn
swords, the Caesar and the senate exchanged formalities while all
around us the mob roared, pressing closer and closer to where we
stood. Even Gallus was alarmed.
Then Theophilus, the governor of Syria, came forward to make
a speech to the Ceasar. Now Theophilus was an excellent official
but he was not popular. Why ? Who knows ? The Antiocheries are
completely frivolous in public matters. If a cruel tyrant is witty,
they will adore him. But if their ruler is a good man, slow of
speech, they will despise him. They despised Theophilus. They
jeered his speech. Then the mob began to shout: "Food! Food!"
During this, I watched Gallus. At first he looked baffled; then
alarmed; then- one could observe his very thought-crafty. He
raised his hand for silence. But the shouting continued. So Theo-
philus motioned to the drummers, who set up an ominous rolling.
The crowd fell silent.
Gallus spoke. "My good people, the heart of your Caesar grieves
for you. Yet he is puzzled. You say you lack food. But why ? There
is food in Antioch. There is plenty of grain in the warehouses. Your
Caesar put it there for you."
"Then give it to us !" A voice rang out.
Gallus shook his head. "But it is yours already. Your governor
knows this." He turned to the stunned governor. "Theophilus, I
have told you to feed the people. Why have you disobeyed me ?
Why have you been so cruel ? Even if you are in league with the
speculators, you must take pity on the people. The poor are
hungry, Theophilus. Feed them !"
In all my long life I have never witnessed such a vicious scene.
Gallus deliberately incited the people against his own governor.
Then he rode off at the head of the legions, leaving us to the now
violent mob. Like the rest of the senate, I bolted. Fortunately no
one was hurt except Theophilus, who was torn to pieces. That day
Gallus lost what small support he had among us.
When Constantius received news of the Theophilus affair, he
realized at last that Gallus must be recalled. But it is easier to
create a Caesar than to destroy one. Constantius knew that if he
were to move against Gallus, there would be civil war. So Con-
stantius proceeded cautiously. His first move was to order Gallus's

[xo~]


army to rendezvous in Serbia, preparatory to a campaign on the
Danube. Inactive troops, said Constantius in a diplomatic letter to
the Caesar, are prone to mutiny. So Gallus was left with only his
personal guard and a single detachment of targeteers. Then Con-
stantius instructed the prefect Domitian (until recently Count of
the Sacred Largesse and a financial expert) to proceed to Syria, as
though on a routine tour of the provinces. At Antioch, Domitian
was to persuade Gallus to obey the Emperor's order to come to
Milan "for consultation". Unfortunately, Domitian was vain and
overbearing and perfectly confident that no one was so clever as
he. I don't know why, but this seems to be a common trait of
finance ministers.
Domitian arrived at Antioch to find Gallus again in residence,
after a month's campaign on the Persian border. But instead of
going first to the Caesar's palace as protocol requires, Domitian
proceeded to military headquarters, announcing that he was too
ill to come to court. For several weeks Domitian remained at head-
quarters, plotting against Gallus and sending back highly coloured
reports to the Emperor concerning the Caesar's doings. At last
Gallus ordered Domitian to present himself at a meeting of the
consistory. He did, and in a scene of unrivalled insolence Domitian
told Gallus that if he did not immediately obey the Emperor and
go to Milan, "I shall personally order your supplies cut off." He
then marched out of the palace and returned to headquarters,
where he thought he was safe.
I was not present at that historic meeting of the Caesar's con-
sistory, but I have been told by those who were there that it was
an astonishing confrontation and that for once all sympathy was
with the Caesar who had been insulted.
Gallus promptly struck back. He ordered Domitian arrested on
a charge of l~se majestY. To give the gloss of legitimacy to this
arrest, he sent his legal adviser, the quaestor Montius, to instruct
the troops in how to behave. Montius was an elderly man, with
a passion for correct procedure. He told Gallus bluntly that the
Caesar had no authority over a prefect engaged on the Emperor's
business. Gallus ignored this advice.
Montius then appeared before the troops who had been called
to assembly, and he told them that what Gallus intended to do
was not only illegal but highly dangerous and that any soldier
who obeyed the Caesar would be committing treason. "But should
you decide to arrest the Emperor's prefect then I advise you first

[~o2]


to overthrow the Emperor's statues, so that your revolt will at
least be honest."
The troops were confused, to say the least. But not for long.
When Gallus heard what Montius had done, he rushed to the
assembly ground and harangued the troops as only he knew how
to do.
"I am in danger. You are in danger. We are all in danger because
of would-be usurpers, some of whom sit in my own consistory."
And he turned fiercely on the courageous old Montius. "Yes, even
the quaestor Montius is involved in this conspiracy. He plots
against me, as well as against Constantius. He tells you that I may
not arrest an insolent prefect because he is on imperial business.
But I have the right to discipline any official in the East. I would
be untrue to my oath to Constant/us if I did not keep order in
Antioch." And so on.
By the time Gallus had finished, the troops were with him.
While he stood by, they murdered Montius. Next they marched on
military headquarters. No attempt was made to resist them. They
found Domitian in the commandant's private office on the second
floor. They threw the wretched prefect down the stairs (which are
very steep: I once badly twisted my ankle going up them). Then
they dragged the bodies of Domitian and Mont/us side by side
through the streets of Antioch.
Gallus was now thoroughly frightened. Though his troops were
adequate for controlling Antioch, he was in no position to resist
Constantius, and it was perfectly plain that the two would soon be
in open conflict. Yet Gallus still pretended to be carrying out the
Emperor's orders when he declared martial law and arrested those
whom he suspected of plotting against him. This turned out to be
half the senate. I withdrew to Daphne during this troubled time.
Gallus set up a military tribunal and arraigned before it all those
who had been accused of treason. During the trials Constantia sat
behind a curtain listening to the testimony; every now and then
she would poke her head into the courtroom to ask a question or
to give an opinion. It was a ludicrous display. Hearsay was now
accepted as fact, and no one was safe.
In a dyeshop a secret agent noticed a purple robe of the sort only
an emperor may wear. It was immediately assumed that the cloak
had been ordered by a would-be usurper. The shopowner wisely
vanished but they found his files. Although there was no mention
of a purple cloak having been ordered, the secret service did come

[~o3]


up with a letter from a deacon inquiring when "the work will
be ready". That was enough. "The work" was the purple cloak,
according to the secret service, which had no other evidence. The
guiltless deacon was arrested, tortured, tried, and put to death.
This was typical of the "justice" at Gallus's court.
Having failed to persuade Gallus to come to Milan, Constantius
ordered his sister Constantia to attend him. Confident that she
could patch up the differences between her husband and her
brother, she set out for Milan. But en route the lady died of fever,
and that was the end for Gallus. Though he was by now perfectly
willing to declare himself Augustus in the East, he lacked the
military power to withstand Constantius. He was in a quandary.
Finally a letter arrived from Constantius that was most amiable
in tone. The Emperor reminded Gallus that under Diocletian a
Caesar always obeyed his Augustus, citing the famous case of the
Caesar Galerius who walked a mile on foot because the Augustus
Diocletian was displeased with him. This letter was delivered by
Scudilo, a master diplomatist who told Gallus privately that Con-
stantius wished him no harm.
Did Gallus believe this ? It seems impossible. But he was by now
a desperate man. He was also completely demoralized by his wife's
death. To everyone's amazement, he agreed to go to Milan. How-
ever, he insisted on travelling by way of Constantinople, where as
the reigning Caesar he presided over the games in the Hippodrome.
But Julian describes this scene.

]ulian Augustus
In the late autumn of 354 I learned of the sudden death of
Constantia. I wrote Gallus a letter of condolence which was not
answered. He was already having his difficulties at Antioch, where
Constantius had earlier sent him a messenger who rudely ordered
him to return to Milan. Gallus, quite rightly, refused to go. He
knew what his fate would be. Instead he sent Constantia to the
Emperor, hoping that she might make peace between them. But
when she died of a fever in Bithynia, he knew that he must either
obey Constantius or begin a civil war. Tricked by the eunuchs who
assured him that he would be safe in Milan, Gallus set out for the
West. On the way he sent me a message, ordering me to meet
him at Constantinople. I obeyed.

Libanius: It is fascinating to observe how a man with Julian's
[~o43


objectivity and passion for truth can so blandly protect his
brother's memory. Not one word about the murders of Montius
and Domitian, nor any mention of the treason trials. I suspect
Julian is more interested in constructing his case against Constantius
than he is in telling what actually happened . . . a human failing.

Julian Augustus
I met Gallus at the back of the imperial box in the Hippodrome.
The box is actually a two-storey pavilion connected by a long corri-
dor to the Sacred Palace. On the first floor there are rooms for
musicians and minor functionaries; the second floor contains a
.suite of rooms used by the imperial family.
The horse races were going on when I arrived. Through the
curtains which covered the door to the box, I could hear the
crowd cheering its favourite drivers. Suddenly Gallus flung aside
the curtain.
"Stay there," he said. He let the curtain fall. He was pale. His
hands shook. His voice was low, his manner furtive. "Now listen
to me. I know what people are saying: that I shall never return
from Milan alive. But don't believe them. I am still Caesar." He
gestured at the curtain. "You should have heard the way the
crowd cheered me just now. They are with me. Also, I have an
army waiting in Serbia, Theban troops who are loyal. Everything
has been carefully planned. When they join me, I shall be ready
to deal with Constantius." But his face revealed the uncertainty
his words tried to dispel.
"You will go into rebellion ?"
"I hope not. I hope for a truce. But who can tell ? Now I wanted
to see you to tell you that if anything should happen to me, go
into a monastery. Take holy orders if you have to. That's the only
way you will be safe. Then . . ." He looked suddenly quite lost.
"Avenge me."
"But I am sure that the Emperor ..." I started to gabble, but I
was interrupted by a stout red-faced man who saluted me cheer-
fully. "Most noble Julian, I am Count Lucillianus, attached to the
Caesar as his . . ."
"Jailer!" Gallus grinned like a wolf.
"The Caesar enjoys making fun of me." He turned to Gallus.
"The crowd is waiting for you to give the victor's crown to
Thorax. He just won the chariot race."
Gallus turned abruptly and drew aside the curtain. For an

[~os]


instant he stood silhouetted against dazzling blue sky. The mob
behind him sounded like a storm at sea.
"Isn't the most noble Julian joining us7" asked Lucillianus,
aware that I had instinctively stepped back from the harsh light
and sudden sound.
"No!" said Gallus. "He is to be a priest." Then he let the curtain
fall behind him; and that was that.

The rest of the story is well known. Gallus and his "jailers"
took the overland route through Illyria. All troops were moved
from the garrisons along the route, and Gallus could call on no one
to support him. At Hadrianopolis, the Theban legions were indeed
waiting, but Gallus was nor allowed to see them. He was now a
prisoner in all but name. Then in Austria, he was arrested by the
infamous Count Barbatio, who had been until recently the com-
mander of his own guard. Gallus was imprisoned at Histria; here
his trial was held. The Grand Chamberlain Eusebius presided.
Gallus was indicted for all the crimes which had taken place
in Syria during the four years of his reign. Most of the charges
against him were absurd and the trial itself was a farce, but Con-
stantius enjoyed the show of legality almost as much as he disliked
the idea of justice. Gallus's only defence was to blame his wife for
everything. This was unworthy of him; but then there was nothing
that he could say or do which would save him. Also, by accusing
Constantius's sister of a thousand crimes (she was guilty of many
more), Gallus was able to strike one last blow at his implacable
enemy. Furious at the form the defence took, Constantius ordered
Gallus executed.
My brother's head was cut off early in the evening of
9 December 3~4. His arms were bound behind him as though he
were a common criminal. He made no last statement. Or if he did,
it has been suppressed. He was twenty-eight when he died. They
say that in his last days he suffered terribly from bad dreams. Of
the men of the imperial family, only Constantius and I were left.
On ~ January 3~5 a warrant was issued for my arrest. But by
then I had joined a religious order at Nicomedia. I am sure that
at first none of the monks knew who I was, for I had come to them
with head shaved and I looked like any other novice, Oribasius also
protected me. When the imperial messenger arrived at Pergamon
to arrest me, Oribasius said that I had gone to Constantinople.

[to6]


I was a monk for six weeks. I found the life surprisingly
pleasant. I enjoyed the austerity and the mild physical labour. The
monks themselves were not very inspiring. I suppose some must
have had the religious sense but the majority were simply
vagrants who had tired of the road and its discomforts. They
treated the monastery as though it were some sort of hostel rather
than a place to serve the One God. Yet they were easy to get along
with, and had it not been for the Galilean rituals I could have been
quite happy.
I don't suppose I shall ever know how I was discovered. Perhaps
one of the monks recognized me or perhaps the secret agents in
checking the rolls of the various monasteries for new arrivals had
grown suspicious. No matter how it was done, it was done swiftly
and efficiently. I was in the kitchen of the monastery, helping the
baker to fire his oven, when a detachment of household troops
came clattering in. Their commander saluted me. "The most noble
Julian is to accompany us to Milan, by order of the Augustus."
I made no protest. The monks stared in silence as I was taken
from them and marched through the cold streets of Nicomedia to
the imperial palace. Here I was received by the city prefect. He
was nervous. Under similar circumstances five years earlier, Gallus
had been ordered to Milan and he had been made Caesar of the East.
The same fate might befall me. It was hard for an official to know
how to behave.
"Naturally, we regret these security precautions." The prefect
indicated the guards. "But you will understand that the Grand
Chamberlain's office was, as always, most specific. No details were
omitted."
I was polite and non-committal. I was also somewhat cheered to
learn that my military escort was to be commanded by Victor, the
same officer I had met at Macellum.
Victor was apologetic. "I don't enjoy this duty. I hope you
realize that."
"Neither do I."
Victor frowned. "I particularly dislike taking a priest from a
monastery."
"I am not exactly a priest."
"Even so, you were prepared to take orders. No one has the
right to keep a man from God, not even the Emperor." Victor is a
devout Galilean; at that time he was convinced that I was also
one. I said nothing to disabuse him.

[Io7]


The next day we set out for Constantinople. Though I was
treated like a prince, not a prisoner, I took it as a bad omen that
we were to follow the same overland route to Italy that Gallus
had taken a few months before.
As we were leaving Nicomedia, I noticed a head on a pike. I
hardly glanced at it, since there is almost always the head of some
felon or other on display at the main gate of every town.
"I am sorry," said Victor suddenly. "But we were ordered to use
this gate."
"Sorry for what ?"
"To lead you past your brother's head."
"Gallus ?" I turned clear round in my saddle and looked again at
the head. The face had been so mutilated that the features were
unrecognizable, but there was no mistaking the blond hair, matted
though it was with dirt and blood.
"The Emperor has had it displayed in every city in the East."
I shut my eyes, on the verge of nausea.
"Your brother had many good qualities," said Victor. "It was a
pity." Ever since, I have respected Victor. In those days when
secret agents were everywhere and no man was safe, it took
courage to say something good of a man executed for treason.
Victor was equally outspoken in my defence. It was his view that
the two charges made against me by the Grand Chamberlain's
office were not serious (that I had left Macellum without per-
mission; that I had met Gallus in Constantinople when he was
already accused of treason). Of the first charge I was innocent.
The Grand Chamberlain himself had written Bishop George, giving
me permission to go wherever I chose in the East. I had wisely
kept a copy of this letter. As for the second charge, I had been
summoned to Constantinople by the then reigning Caesar of the
East. How could I refuse my lawful lord ? "You have nothing to
fear," said Victor. But I was not optimistic.
Since I was travelling as a prince, I was greeted at each city by
the local dignitaries. Concerned as I was about my own fate, I was
still able to take some pleasure in seeing new things. I was particu-
larly pleased when Victor allowed me to visit Ilios, a modern city
near the ruins of ancient Troy.
At Ilios I was taken round by the local bishop. At first my heart
sank: a Galilean bishop was the last sort of person who would be
interested in showing me the temples of the true gods. But to my
surprise, Bishop Pegasius was an ardent Hellenist. In fact, he was

[~o8]


the one who was surprised when I asked him if we might visit the
temples of Hector and Achilles.
"But of course. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. But I
am surprised that you are interested in old monuments.""I am a child of Homer."
"So is every educated man. But we are also Christians. Your
piety is well known to us even here." I could not be sure if he
was being ironic or not. My friendship with Maximus was general
knowledge and a good many Galileans were suspicious of me. On
the other hand, my arrest in a monastery had given rise to a whole
new legend: the priest-prince. In this role, I explained to the bishop
that it was merely as a student of Homer that I wanted to see the
famous temples our ancestors had built to those gods (false gods !)
and heroes who had fought in this haunted place.
Pegasius took me first to the small temple which contains the
famous bronze statue of Hector, said to be done from life. In the
unroofed courtyard which surrounds the temple there also stands
a colossal statue of Achilles, facing Hector in effigy as in life. To
my astonishment, the altars in the courtyard were smouldering
with sacrifice, while the statue of Hector shone from a recent
anointing.
I turned to the Bishop. "What do these fires mean? Do the
people still worship Hector ?"
Pegasius was bland. "Of course they do. After all, it would be
unnatural not to worship our brave men in the same way that we
worship the martyrs who also lived here."
"I'm not sure it is the same thing," I said primly.
"Well, at least we have managed to preserve many beautiful
works of ~rt" Th~n PF~O~ICJl~C nrr-~rl~4 *~ ~h ...... *k ..... 1--



the one who was surprised when I asked him if we might visit the
temples of Hector and Achilles.
"But of course. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. But I
am surprised that you are interested in old monuments.""I am a child of Homer."
"So is every educated man. But we are also Christians. Your
piety is well known to us even here." I could not be sure if he
was being ironic or not. My friendship with Maximus was general
knowledge and a good many Galileans were suspicious of me. On
the other hand, my arrest in a monastery had given rise to a whole
new legend: the priest-prince. In this role, I explained to the bishop
that it was merely as a student of Homer that I wanted to see the
famous temples our ancestors had built to those gods (false gods!)
and heroes who had fought in this haunted place.
Pegasius took me first to the small temple which contains the
famous bronze statue of Hector, said to be done from life. In the
unroofed courtyard which surrounds the temple there also stands
a colossal statue of Achilles, facing Hector in effigy as in life. To
my astonishment, the altars in the courtyard were smouldering
with sacrifice, while the statue of Hector shone from a recent
anointing.
I turned to the Bishop. "What do these fires mean ? Do the
people still worship Hector ?"
Pegasius was bland. "Of course they do. After all, it would be
unnatural not to worship our brave men in the same way that we
worship the martyrs who also lived here."
;'I'm not sure it is the same thing," I said primly.
"Well, at least we have managed to preserve many beautiful
works of art." Then Pegasius proceeded to show me the temples
of Athena and Achilles, both in perfect repair. I noted, too, that
whenever he passed the image of an old god, he did not hiss and
make the sign of the cross the way most Gallleans do, fearing
contamination.
Pegasius proved to be a marvellous guide to Troy. I was particu-
larly moved when he showed me the sarcophagus of Achilles.
"There he lies, the fierce Achilles." He tapped the ancient marble.
"A hero and a giant - actually, a giant. Some years ago we opened
the tomb and found the bones of a man seven feet tall, and where
his heel had been there was the head of an arrow."
It was awesome to be so close to the legendary past. Pegasius
could see that I was impressed. Despite all efforts to the contrary, I

[~o9]


am transparent as water. "Those were great days," he said softly.
"They will come again," I blurted out.
"I pray that you are right," said the bishop of Ilios. Today this
same Pegasius is my high priest of Cappadocia. He was never a
Galilean though he pretended to be one, thinking that by rising
to a position of importance among that depraved sect he would
be able to preserve the temples of our ancestors. Now he revels in
his freedom.

Priscus: And now he revels in life at the Persian court, where,
according to gossip, he is a convert to Persian sun worship. Julian
took up with the oddest people.

Julian Augustus
At the beginning of February we arrived at Como, a town on a
lake about thirty miles north of Milan. Here I remained a prisoner
for six months. I was allowed to see no one except the servants
who had come with me. Letters from Oribasius and Maximus were
not delivered. I might as well have been dead. I consoled myself
with reading the complete works of Pliny the Younger, who had
lived at Como. I remember with what loathing I read his famous
description of "darling Como". I hated the place, including the
blue-green lake.
During this time I had no idea what was happening in the out-
side world, which was probably just as well for I was the subject
of fierce debate in the Sacred Consistory. According to Eusebius:
"He is another Gallus. He must be put to death." A majority of the
Consistory agreed with the Chamberlain. Surprisingly enough, the
opposition was led by the Empress Eusebia. Though she was not a
member of the Consistory, she was able to make her views known.
"Julian has committed no crime. His loyalty has never been
seriously questioned. He is the last surviving male member of the
imperial house. Until such time as we provide the Emperor with a
son, Julian is heir to the principate. But should Julian be executed
and should the Emperor then- heaven forbid -die without issue,
the house of Constantine is at an end and there will be chaos in the
empire." Eusebia finally prevailed. But it took her six months of
argument, during which time Constantius said not a word. He
merely listened and brooded and waited.
At the beginning of June a court chamberlain arrived at Como.

L,':~o]


"The most noble Julian is to wait upon the divine Empress
Eusebia." I was startled: the Empress, not the Emperor ? I tried to
question the chamberlain but he would say no more than that I
was to be given a private audience; no, he could not tell me if the
Emperor would receive me; no, he was not even certain that the
Emperor was at Milan; he revelled in being uninformative.
We entered Milan through a door in one of the watchtowers.
In complete secrecy, I was hurried through narrow back streets
to a side entrance of the palace. Once inside the palace I was met
by chamberlains who took me straight to the apartment of the
Empress.
Eusebia was handsomer than her portraits. The eyes and mouth,
which appeared so severe when rendered in marble, in life were
not severe at all, merely sad. A flame-coloured robe set off her pale
face and black hair. She was not much older than I.
"We are pleased to receive our cousin, the most noble Julian,"
she murmured formally. She motioned to one of her ladies-in-wait-
ing, who came forward with a folding stool and placed it beside
the Empress's silver chair.
"We hope our cousin enjoyed his stay at Lake Como."
"The lake is very beautiful, Augusta." At a gesture from her, I
sat on the stool.
"Yes. The Emperor and I enjoy the lake."
For what seemed an eternity, we discussed that wretched lake.
All the while she was studying me carefully. And I must say I was
studying her. Eusebia was Constantius's second wife. His first wife
had been Galla, the half-sister of Gallus. Galla had the same mother
as Gallus, who had the same father as I, but I never knew her, and
I don't think Gallus ever met his sister more than once or twice.
When Galla died, Constantius promptly married Eusebia. It was
said that he had always been in love with her. She came from an
excellent consular family. She was a popular figure at court, and
on more than one occasion she had saved innocent men from
Constantius's eunuchs.
"We have been told that you are planning to become a priest."
"I was at a monastery, when I was... told to come to Milan."
I started to stammer as I often do when I am nervous. The letter
"m" gives me particular trouble.
"But do you seriously want to be a priest ?"
"I don't know. I prefer philosophy, I think. I would like to live
at Athens."

[III]


"You have no interest in politics ?" She smiled as she said this,
knowing what my answer must necessarily be."No! None, Augusta."
"Yet you have certain responsibilities to the state. You are
imperial."
'q~he Augustus needs no help from me."
"That is not quite true." She clapped her hands and the two
ladies-in-waiting withdrew, closing cedar doors softly behind
them.
"Nothing is secret in a palace," she said. "One is never
alone."
"Aren't we alone now ?"
Eusebia cIapped her hands again. Two eunuchs appeared from
behind pillars at the opposite end of the room. She waved them
away.
"They can hear but they cannot speak. A precaution. But then
there are others listening whom one knows nothing about.""The secret agents?"
She nodded. "Everything we say to one another in this room
they can hear."
"But where . . . ?"
She smiled at my bewilderment. "Who knows wl~ere ? But one
knows they are always present.""They even spy on you ?"
"Especially on the Empress." She was serene. "It has always
been like this in palaces. So remember to speak... carefully."
"Or not at all!"
She laughed. I found myself relaxing somewhat. I almost trusted
her. She became serious. "The Emperor has given me permission
to talk to you. He was reluctant. I don't need to tell you that
since the Gallus affair he has felt himself entirely surrounded by
traitors. He trusts no one.""But I . . ."
"He trusts you least of all." This was blunt. But I was grateful
for her candour. "Against his own good judgment, he raised your
brother up. Within months, Gallus and Constantia were plotting
to usurp the throne."
"Are you so certain ?"
"We have proof."
"I am told that secret agents often invent 'proof'."
She shrugged. "In this case it was not necessary. Constantia was


indiscreet. I never trusted her. But that is over with. You are
now the potential threat."
"Easily solved," I said with more bitterness than I intended.
"Execute me."
"There are those who advise this." She was as much to the point
as I. "But 1 am not one. As you know, as the whole world knows,
Constantius cannot have a child." Her face set bleakly. "I have
been assured by my confessor that this is heaven's judgment upon
my husband for having caused the deaths of so many members of
his own family. Not that he wasn't justified," she added loyally.
"But justified or not, there is a curse on those who kill their
own kind, That curse is on Constantius. He has no heir and
I am certain that he will never have one, if he puts you to
death."
There it was at last. My sense of relief was enormous, and per-
fectly visible in my face.
"Yes. You are safe. For the time being. But there still remains
the problem of what to do with you. We had hoped you would
take holy orders."
"If it is required, I shall." Yes, I said that. I am giving as honest
an account as I can of my life. At that moment, I would have
worshipped the ears of a mule to save my life.
But Eusebia was not insistent. "Your love of learning also seems
genuine." She smiled. "Oh, we know whom you see, what books
you read. There is very little that has escaped the attention of the
Chamberlain's office."
"Then they know that it is my wish to be a philosopher."
"Yes. And I believe that the Emperor will grant you your
wish."
"I shall be eternally grateful, and loyal. He has nothing to fear
from me, ever . . ." I babbled on enthusiastically.
Eusebia watched me, amused. Then vchen I ran out of breath,
she said: "Gallus made him much the same speech."
On that dampening note she rose, ending the interview. "I shall
try to arrange an interview for you with the Emperor. It won't
be easy. He is shy." At the time I found this hard to believe, but
of course Eusebia was right. Constantius feared all human
encounters. One of the reasons he was so fond of eunuchs was that,
by and large, they are not quite human.
Two days later, I was visited by the Grand Chamberlain himself.
I found it hard to believe that this enchanting creature with his


caressing voice and dimpled smile was daily advising the Consis-
tory to execute me. He quite filled the small apartment where I
had been confined.
"Oh, you have grown, most noble Julian! In every way."
Delicately Eusebius touched my face. "And your beard is now
most philosophic. How Marcus Aurelius would have envied you !"
For an instant one fat finger rested, light as a butterfly, on the tip of
my beard. Then we stood face to face, beaming at one another; I
with nerves, he with policy.
"I don't need to tell you how pleased I am to see you at court.
We all are. This is where you belong, close to your own kind." My
heart sank: was that to be my fate? a life at court where the
eunuchs could keep an eye on me ? A swift death was almost
preferable. "Now I suggest that when you see the divine Augustus,
you will beg him to allow you to stay always at his side. He needs
you."
I seized on the one fact. "The Emperor will see me ?"
Eusebius nodded delightedly, as though he had been entirely
responsible for my amazing good fortune. "Of course. Didn't you
know? He made the decision at this morning's Consistory. We
were all so pleased. Because we want you here. I have always said
that there should be a place for you at the side of the Augustus. A
high place."
"You flatter me," I murmured.
"I say only the truth. You are, after all, an ornament to the
house of Constantine, and what better place has such a pure jewel
to shine than in the diadem of the court ?"
I swallowed this gravely and replied with equal insincerity, "I
shall never forget what you have done for me and for my brother."
Tears came to Eusebius's eyes. His voice trembled. "It is my
wish to serve you. That is all I ask for." He leaned forward - with
some effort- and kissed my hand. The rhetoric of hate is often
most effective when couched in the idiom of love. On a note of
mutual admiration, we parted.
I was next instructed by one of the eunuchs in the court's
etiquette, which was nearly as complicated as what one goes
through during the Mithraic mysteries. There are a dozen set
responses to an emperor's set questions or commands. There are
bows and genuflections; steps to left and steps to right; alternative
gestures should I be asked to approach the throne or merely to
remain where I was. The eunuch loved his work. "Our ceremonies


are among this world's marvels! More inspiring, in some ways,
than the mass." I agreed to that.
The eunuch spread a diagram for me on a table. "This is the great
hall where you will be received." He pointed. "Here sits the divine
Constantius. And here you will enter." Every move either of us
was to make was planned in advance like a dance. When I had
finally learned my lesson, the eunuch folded his map with an
exalted expression on his face. "We have considerably improved
and refined court ceremonial since the divine Diocletian. I am sure
that he never dreamed his heirs would be capable of such exquisite
style as well as such profound symbolism, for we are now able to
beautifully reflect the nature of the universe in a single ceremony
lasting scarcely three hours!"
The cutting down of court ceremonies and the removal of the
eunuchs was one of the first acts of my reign. It was certainly the
most satisfactory.
Shortly after sundown, the Master of the Offices and his many
ushers escorted me to the throneroom. The Master of the Offices
gave me last-minute instructions on how to behave in the sacred
presence. But I did not listen. I was too busy preparing the speech
I intended to make to Constantius. It was a masterpiece of
eloquence. After all, I had been preparing it for ten years. Face to
face, I intended to make Constantius my friend.
The Master of the Offices ushered me into a huge basilica which
was once Diocletian's throneroom. The Corinthian columns
which line it are twice the usual height and the floor is of porphyry
and green marble. The effect is most splendid, especially by
artificial light. In the apse at the far end of the basilica stands the
throne of Diocletian, an elaborate chair of ivory decorated with
gold plaques. Needless to say, I remember everything about that
room in which my fate was decided. Torches flared between the
columns while on either side of the throne bronze lamps illumin-
ated its occupant. Not counting my childho.od encounter with Con-
stantine, this was the first time I beheld an emperor in full state.
I was not prepared for the theatricality of the scene.
Constantius sat very straight and still, his forearms resting on
his knees in imitation of the Egyptian kings. He wore a heavy gold
diadem set with huge square jewels. On one side of him stood
Eusebius, on the other the praetorian prefect, while around the
room the officials of the court were ranged.
I was officially presented to the Emperor. I paid him homage.

[~5]


Only once did I falter in the course of the ritual; when I did, the
Master of the Offices was quick to whisper the correct formula
in my ear.
If Constantius was curious about me, he did not betray it. His
bronze face was empty of all expression as he spoke. "We receive
our most noble cousin with pleasure." But there was no pleasure in
that high-pitched voice. I felt myself suddenly blushing. "We give
him leave to go to Ather[s to continue his studies." I glanced at
Eusebius. Though his own grim advice had not prevailed, he gave
me a small delighted nod as if to say, "We've won !"
"Also . . ." But then Constantius stopped talking. There is no
other way to describe what happened. He simply stopped. There
were no more words for me. I stared at him, wondering if I had
gone mad. Even the Master of the Offices was taken aback. Every-
one had expected a full speech from Constantius as well as a re-
sponse from me. But the audience was over. Constantius put out
his hand for me to kiss. I did so. Then with the aid of the Master of
the Offices, I walked backward to the entrance, bowing at regular
intervals. Just as I was about to leave the presence, two squeaking
bats swooped suddenly out of the shadowy ceiling, and darted
straight towards Constantius. He did not move, even though one
almost touched his face. As always, his self-control was marvel-
lous. I have never known a man quite so deep or so cold.
I returned to my apartment to find a message from the Grand
Chamberlain's office. I was to proceed at once to the port of
Aquileia. My belongings had already been packed. My servants
were ready. A military escort was standing by.
'Within the hour, I was outside the walls of Milan. As I rode
through the warm night, I prayed to Helios that I never see court
or Emperor again.

[~~6]


VII

I arrived at Piraeus, the port of Athens, shortly after sunrise
5 August 355. I remember every one of the forty-seven days I
spent in Athens. They were the happiest of my life, so far.
It was a windy dawn. In the east, light tore at the dark. Stars
faded. The sea was rough. It was like the morning of the world.
The ship creaked and shuddered as it struck against the pilings of
the quay. I had half expected to see a detachment of troops wait-
ing on the shore, ready to arrest me on some new charge. But
there were no troops in sight, only foreign merchant ships and
the usual bustle of a busy port. Slaves unloaded cargoes. Officials
of the port moved solemnly from ship to ship. Men with carts and
donkeys shouted to those just arrived, promising to get them to
Athens faster than that youth who ran from Marathon to the city
in four hours (and fell dead, one would like to retort, but irony is
lost on drivers, even Greek drivers who know their Homer).
Barefoot students in shabby clothes moved in packs from ship
to ship, trying to sign up newcomers for lectures. Each student
was a proselytizer for his own teacher. There was a good deal of
rancour as each of these youths went about trying to convince
would-be students (known as "foxes") that there was but one
teacher in Athens worth listening to: his own. Fights often broke
out between the factions. Even as I watched, two students actually
manhandled a stranger; each grabbed an arm, and while one in-
sisted that he attend the lectures of a certain Sophist, the other
shouted that the Sophist was a fool and that only the wisdom of
his teacher, a Cynic, was worth a student's time. Between them,
they nearly tore the poor man in half. Nor would they let him
go until he finally made it clear to them in broken Greek that
he was an Egyptian cotton dealer and not at all interested in
philosophy. Luckily, they did not get as far as my ship; so I was
spared their attentions.
Usually when a member of the imperial family travels by
sea, the dragon of our house flies at the mast. But since I was
technically under "house arrest", I was in no way identified to the
people, which was just as well. I wanted to be free in Athens, to
wander unnoticed wherever I chose. But unfortunately a dozen

[xx7]


soldiers had been assigned to me as permanent bodyguard (they
were, in effect, my jailers) and their commanding officer was re-
sponsible for my safety. I felt some obligation to him, though not
much.
I made a bold decision. While the servants were busy with the
luggage and the men who guarded me were all gathered on the
forward deck of the ship in sleepy conference with the officials
of the port, I scribbled a note to my head jailer, telling him that
I would meet him at the end of the day at the prefect's house. I
left the note on one of our travelling chests. Then, student's cloak
securely wrapped about me, I swung over the side of the ship and
dropped unobserved on to the wharf.
It took a moment to become accustomed to the steadiness of
earth. I am not a bad sailor but the monotony of a long voyage
and the continual slap and fall of a ship at sea tire me. I am of
earth, not water; air, not fire. I engaged a cart and driver after
considerable haggling (I was able to bring the driver's cost down
to half what he asked: good but not marvellous). Then I climbed
into the little cart. Half standing, half sitting on the cart rail, I was
borne over the rutted road to Athens.
The sun rose in a cloudless sky. Attic clarity is not just metaphor;
it is fact. The sky's blue was painful. One felt one could see straight
to the farthest edge of the world if the mountain Hymettos, low
and violet in the early light, had not blocked the view. The heat
with each instant became more intense, but it was the dry heat of
the desert, made pleasant by a soft wind from the sea.
My first reaction was delight at anonymity. No one stared at
me. No one knew who I was. I looked a typical student with my
beard and plain cloak. There were dozens like me. Some were in
carts, most were on foot; all of them moving towards the same
goal: Athens and the knowledge of the true.
On every side of me carts rattled and creaked, their drivers
cursing and their contents, human or animal, co.mplaining. The
Athenian Greek is a lively fellow, though one looks in vain from
face to face for a glimpse of Pericles or Alcibiades. As a race, they
are much changed. They are no longer noble. They have been too
often enslaved, and their blood mixed with that of barbarians.
Yet I do not find them as sly and effeminate as certain Latin writers
affect to. I think that the Old Roman tendency to look down on
the Greeks is no more than a natural resentment of Greece's
continuing superiority in those things which are important:

[~81


philosophy and art. All that is good in Rome today was Greek. I
find Cicero disingenuous when on one page he acknowledges his
debt to Plato and then on the next speaks with contempt of the
Greek character. He seems unaware of his own contradictions...
doubtless because they were a commonplace in his society. Of
course the Romans pretend they are children of Troy, but that non-
sense was never taken too seriously. From time to time I have had
a word or two to say about Roman character, not much of it flat-
tering (my little work on the Caesars, though written much too
quickly, has some point, I think). But then one must recall that
even as I dictate these lines as Roman Emperor, I am really Greek.
And I have been to Athens, the eye of Greece.
Athens. It has been eight years since I rode up to the city gate in
a market cart, an anonymous student who gaped at the sights like
any German come to town. My first glimpse of the acropolis was
startling and splendid. It hovers over the city as though held in the
hand of Zeus, who seems to say: "Look, children, at how your
gods live!" Sunlight flashes off the metal shield of the colossal
statue of Athena, guarding her city. Off to the left I recognized the
steep pyramidal mountain of Lykabettos, a great pyramid of rock
hurled to earth by Athena herself; to this day wolves dwell at its
foot.
The driver turned abruptly into a new road. I nearly fell out of
the cart. "Academy Road," he announced in the perfunctory loud
voice of one used to talking to foreigners. I was impressed. The
road from Athens to the Academy's grove is lined with ancient
trees. It begins at the city's Dipylon Gate-which was straight
ahead of us- and crosses through suburbs to the green-leafed
academy of Aristotle.
The Dipylon Gate was as busy in the early morning as any other
great city's gate might have been at noon. It is a double gate, as its
name indicates, with two tall towers on the outside. Guards lolled
in front, paying no attention to the carts and pedestrians who came
and went. As we passed through the outer gate, our cart was sud-
denly surrounded by whores. Twenty or thirty women and girls
of all ages rushed out of the shadows of the wall. They fought with
one another to get close to the cart. They tugged at my cloak. They
called me "Billy Goat", "Pan", "Satyr", and other less endearing
terms. With the skill of an acrobat one pretty child of fourteen
vaulted the railing of my cart and firmly grasped my beard in her
fist. The soldiers laughed at my discomfort. With some effort I

[~9]


pried my beard free from her fingers, but not before her other
hand had reached between my legs, to the delight of those watch-
ing. But the driver was expert at handling these girls. With a
delicate flick of his whip, he snapped at her hand. It was with-
drawn with a cry. She leapt to the ground. The other women ieered
us. Their curses were vivid and splendid, Homeric! Then as we
passed through the second gate they turned back, for a troop of
cavalry had appeared at the outer gate. Like bees swarming in a
garden, they surrounded the soldiers.
I arranged my tunic. The sharp tug of the girl's hand had had
its effect upon me, and against my will I thought of love-making
and wondered where the best girls in Athens might be found.
I was not then, as I am now, cellbate. Yet even in those days I
believed that it was virtuous to mortify the flesh, for it is a fact
that continence increases intellectual clarity. But I was also
twenty-three years old and the flesh made demands on me in a
way that the mind could not control. Youth is the body's time. Not
a day passed in those years that I did not experience lust. Not a
week passed that I did not assuage that lust. But I do not agree
with those Dionysians who maintain that the sexual act draws
men closer to the One God. If anything, it takes a man away from
God, for in the act he is blind and thoughtless, no more than an
animal engaged in the ceremony of creation. Yet to each stage of
one's life certain things are suitable and for a few weeks, eight
years ago, I was young, and knew many girls. Even now on this
hot Asiatic night, I recall with unease that brilliant time, and think
of love-making. I notice that my secretary is blushing. Yet he is
Greek !

The driver indicated a large ruin to the right. "Hadrian," he
said. "Hadrian Augustus." Like all travellers, I am used to hearing
guides refer to my famous predecessor. Even after two centuries
he is the only emperor every man has heard of- because of his
constant travelling, his continuous building and, sad to say, his
ridiculous passion for the boy Antinoiis. I suppose that it is natural
enough to like boys but it is not natural or seemly to love anyone
with the excessive and undignified passion that Hadrian showed
for Antino/is. Fortunately, the boy was murdered before Hadrian
could make him his heir. But in his grief Hadrian made himself
and the Genius of Rome look absurd. He set up thousands of
statues and dedicated innumerable temples to the dead boy. He

[~2o]


even declarecl the pretty catamite a god ! It was a shocking display
and permanently shadows Hadrian's fame. For the first time in
history, a Roman emperor was mocked and thought ridiculous.
From every corner of the earth derisive laughter sounded. Yet
except for this one lapse, I find Hadrian a sympathetic figure. He
was much gifted, particularly in music. He was an adept at mys-
teries. He used to spend many hours at night studying the stars,
searching for omens and portents, as do I. He also wore a beard. I
like him best for that. That sounds petty, doesn't it? I surprise
myself as I say it. But then liking and disliking, approval and dis-
approval depend on many trivial things. I dislike Hadrian's passion
for Antinotis because I cannot bear for a philosopher-emperor to
be mocked by his subjects. But I like his beard. We are all so simple
at heart that we become unfathomable to one another.

Just inside the wall of the city, I left my driver. Then like one
who has gone to sleep over a book of history, I stepped into the
past. I stood now on that ancient highway- known simply as
The Road- which leads from gate to agora to acropolis beyond.
I was now in history. In the present I was part of the past and,
simultaneously, part of what is to come. Time opened his arms
to me and in his serene embrace I saw the matter whole: a circle
without beginning or end.
To the left of the gate was a fountain in which I washed the dust
from my face and beard. Then I proceeded along The Road to the
agora. I am told that Rome is infinitely more impressive than
Athens. I don't know. I have never visited Rome. But I do know
that Athens looks the way a city ought to look but seldom does.
It is even better planned than Pergamon, at least at its centre. Porti-
coes gleam in the bright sun. The intense blue sky sets off the
red tile roofs and makes the faded paint of columns seem to
glow.
The Athenian agora is a large rectangular area enclosed by long
porticoes of great antiquity. The one on the right is dedicated to
Zeus; the one on the left is of more recent date, the gift of a young
king of Pergamon who studied here. In the centre of the agora is
the tall building of the University, first built by Agrippa in the time
of Augustus. The original building - used as a music hall - collapsed
mysteriously in the last century. I find the architecture pretentious,
even in its present somewhat de-Romanized version. But pretentious
or not, this building was my centre in Athens. For here the most


distinguished philosophers lecture. Here I listened three times
weekly to the great Prohaeresius, of whom more later.
Behind the University are two porticoes parallel to one another,
the last being at the foot of the acropolis. To one's right, on a hill
above the agora, is a small temple to Hephaestos surrounded by
gardens gone to seed. Below this hill are the administrative build-
ings of Athens, the Archives, the Round House where the fifty
governors of Athens meet - this last is a peculiar-looking structure
with a steep roof which the Athenians, who give everything and
everyone a nickname, call "the umbrella". There used to be many
silver statues in the Round House but the Goths stole them in the
last century.
Few people were abroad as the sun rose to noon. A faint breeze
stirred the dust on the old pitted paving. Several important-looking
men, togas draped ineptly about plump bodies, hurried towards the
Bouletrion. They had the self-absorbed air of politicians every-
where. Yet these men were the political heirs of Pericles and
Demosthenes. I tried to remember that as I watched them hurry
about their business.
Then I stepped into the cool shade of the Painted Portico. For
an instant my eyes were dazzled, the result of sudden dimness.
Not for some time was I able to make out the famous painting of
the Battle of Marathon which covers the entire long wall of the
portico. But as my eyes grew used to the shade, I saw that the
painting was indeed the marvel the world says it is. One can follow
the battle's course by walking the length of the portico. Above the
painting hang the round shields of the Persians, captured that day.
The shields have been covered with pitch to preserve them. Look-
ing at those relics of a battle fought eight hundred years before, I
was much moved. Those young men and their slaves - yes, for the
first time in history slaves fought beside their masters- together
saved the world. More important, they fought of their own free
will, unlike our soldiers, who are either conscripts or mercenaries.
Even in times of peri], our people will not fight to protect their
country. Money, not honour, is now the source of Roman power.
When the money goes, the state will go. That is why Hellenism
must be restored, to instil again in man that sense of his own worth
which made civilization possible, and won the day at Marathon.
As I stood there looking up at the tarry shields, a youth
approached me. He was bearded; his clothes were dirty; he wore
a student's cloak and he looked a typical New Cynic of the sort I

[I22]


deplore. I have recently written at considerable length about these
vagabonds. In the last few years the philosophy of Crates and Zeno
has been taken over by idlers who, though they have no interest in
philosophy, deliberately imitate the Cynics in such externals as
not cutting their hair or beards, carrying sticks and wallets, and
begging. But where the original Cynics despised wealth, sought
virtue, questioned all things in order to find what was true, these
imitators mock all things, including the true, using the mask of
philosophy to disguise licence and irresponsibility. Nowadays, any
young man who does not choose to study or to work grows a
beard, insults the gods, and calls himself Cynic. No wonder philo-
sophy has earned the contempt of so many in this unhappy age.
Without ceremony, the New Cynic pointed at the wall. "That
is Aeschylus," he said. I looked politely at the painting of a bearded
soldier, no different from the others except for the famous name
written above his head. The playwright is shown engaged in com-
bat with a Persian. But though he is fighting for his life, his sombre
face is turned towards us, as though to say: I know that I am
immortal !
"The painter was self-conscious," I said neutrally, fully expect-
ing to be asked for money and ready not to give it.
The Cynic grinned at me. Apparently he chose to regard neu-
trality as friendship. He tapped the painting. A flake of paint zig-
zagged to the ground. "One day the whole thing will disappear and
then who will know what Marathon was like, when this picture's
gone ?" As he spoke, something stirred in my memory. I recognized
the voice. Yet the face was completely strange to me. Confident
now that we were friends, he turned from the painting to me.
Had I just arrived in Athens ? Yes. Was I a student ? Yes. Was I a
Cynic ? No. Well, there was no cause to be so emphatic (smiling).
He himself dressed as a Cynic only because he was poor. By the
time this startling news had been revealed to me, we had climbed
the steps to the temple of Hephaestos. Here the view of the agora is
wide and elegant. In the clear noon light one could see beyond
the city to the dark small windows of those houses which cluster
at the foot of Hymettos.
"Beautiful," said my companion, making even that simple word
sound ambiguous. "Though beauty . . ."
"Is absolute," I said firmly. Then to forestall Cynic chatter, I
turned abruptly into the desolate garden of the temple. The place
was overrun with weeds, while the temple itself was shabby and

[123]


sad. But at least the Galileans have not turned it into a charnel
house. Far better that a temple fall in ruins than be so desecrated.
Better of course that it be restored.
My companion asked if I was hungry. I said no, which he took
as yes (he tended not to listen to answers). He suggested we visit
a tavern in the quarter just back of the temple. It was, he assured
me, a place much frequented by students of the "better" sort. He
was sure that I would enjoy it. Amused by his effrontery (and still
intrigued by that voice which haunted me), I accompanied him
through the narrow hot streets of the near by quarter of the smiths,
whose shops glowed blue as they hammered out metal in a blaring
racket: metal struck metal in a swarm of sparks, like comets' tails.
The tavern was a low building with a sagging roof from which
too many tiles had been removed by time and weather. I bent low
to enter the main door. I was also forced to stoop inside, for the
ceiling was too low for me and the beams were haphazard, even
dangerous in the dim light. My companion had no difficulty stand-
ing straight. I winced at the heavy odour of rancid oil burning in
pots on the stove.
Two trestle tables with benches filled the room. A dozen youths
sat together close to the back door, which opened on to a dismal
courtyard containing a dead olive tree which looked as though it
had been sketched in silver on the whitewashed wall behind it.
My companion knew most of the other students. All were New
Cynics, bearded, loud, disdainful, unread. They greeted us with
cheerful obscenities. I felt uncomfortable but was determined to go
through with my adventure. After all, this was what I had dreamed
of. To be just one among many, even among New Cynics. The
moment was unique, or so I thought. When asked who I was, they
were told "Not a Cynic." They laughed good-humouredly. But then
when they heard I was new to Athens, each made an effort to get
me to attend lectures with his teacher. My companion rescued
me. "He is already taken. He studies with Prohaeresius." I was
surprised, for I had said nothing to my guide about Prohaeresius,
and yet Prohaeresius was indeed the teacher of my choice. How
did he know ?
"I know all about you," he said mysteriously. "I read minds, tell
fortunes." He was interrupted by one of the youths, who suggested
that I shave my beard since otherwise I might be mistaken for a
New Cynic and give them a bad name by my good behaviour. This
was considered witty in that room. Others debated whether or not
[I29]


I should be carried off to the baths to be scrubbed, the traditional
hazing for new students, and one which I had every intention of
avoiding. If necessary, I would invoke lkse maiestd !
But my guardian shoved the students away and sat me down at
the opposite table close to the courtyard door, for which I was
grateful. I am not particularly sensitive to odours, but on a blazing
hot day the odour of unwashed students combined with thick
smoke from old burning oil was almost too much for me. The
tavern-keeper, making sure I had money (apparently my companion
was deep in his debt), brought us cheese, bitter olives, old bread,
sour wine. To my surprise, I was hungry. I ate quickly, without
tasting. Suddenly I paused, aware that I was being stared at. I
looked across the table at my companion. Yes ?
"You have forgotten me, haven't you, Julian ?"
Then I identified the familiar voice. I recognized Gregory of
Nazianzus. We had been together at Pergamon. I burst out laugh-
ing and shook his hand. "How did such a dedicated Christian be-
come a New Cynic ?"
"Poverty, plain poverty." Gregory indicated the torn and dirty
cloak, the unkempt beard. "And protection." He lowered his voice,
indicating the students at the other table. "Christians are out-
numbered in Athens. It's a detestable city. There is no faith, only
argument and atheism."
"Then why are you here ?"
He sighed. "The best teachers are here, the best instructors in
rhetoric. Also, it is good to know the enemy, to be able to fight him
with his own weapons."
I nodded and pretended agreement. I was not very brave in those
days. But even though I could never be candid with Gregory, he
was an amusing companion. He was as devoted to the Galilian
nonsense as I was to the truth. I attributed this to his unfortunate
childhood. His family are Cappadocian. They live in a small town
some fifty miles south-west of Caesarea, the provincial capital. His
mother was a most strong-willed woman named . . . I cannot re-
call her name but I did meet her once a few years ago, and a most
formidable creature she was. Passionate and proud and perfectly
intolerant of everything not Galilean.
Gregory's father was part Jew and part Greek. As a result of his
wife's relentless admonitions, he succumbed finally to the Galilean
religion. According to Gregory, when his father was splashed with
water by the bishop of Nazianzus, a great nimbus shone all round


the convert. The bishop was so moved that he declared, "Here is
my successor!" A most generous-minded man, that bishop! Most
of us prefer not to name our successor. In due course, Gregory's
father became bishop of Nazianzus. So his predecessor had the
gift of prophecy, if nothing else.
All in a rush Gregory was telling me of himself. "... a terrible
trip, by sea. Just before we got to Aegina, the storm struck us. I
was sure the ship would sink. I was terrified. I'd never been (I still
am not) baptized. So if I died like that at sea... Well, you must
know yourself what I went through." He looked at me sharply.
"Are you baptized ?"
I said that I had been baptized as a child. I looked as reverent as
possible when I said this.
"I prayed and prayed. Finally I fell asleep, exhausted. We all
did. I dreamed that something loathsome, some sort of Fury, had
come to take me to hell. Meanwhile, one of the cabin boys, a boy
from Nazianzus, was dreaming that he saw - now this is really a
miracle - Mother walking upon the water."
"His mother or your mother or the mother of Jesus?" I am
afraid that I asked this out of mischief. I couldn't help myself.
But Gregory took the question straight. "My mother," he said.
"The boy knew her, and there she was walking across that raging
sea. Then she took the ship by its prow and drew it after her to a
safe harbour. Which is exactly what happened. That very night
the storm stopped. A Phoenician ship found us and towed us into
the harbour of Rhodes." He sat back in triumph. "What do you
think of that ?"
"Your mother is a remarkable woman," I said accurately.
Gregory agreed and talked at enthusiastic length about that stern
virago. Then he told me of his adventures in Athens, of his poverty
(this was a hint which I took: I gave him a good deal of money
during the course of my stay), of our friend Basil who was also
in Athens and was, I suspect, the reason for Gregory's attendance
at the University. Wherever Basil went, Gregory followed. At
Athens they were nicknamed "the Twins".
"I am expecting Basil now. We're both due at Prohaeresius's
house this afternoon. We'll take you. You know we live together
here. We study together. We argue almost as a team against the
local Sophists. And we usually win." This was true. Both he and
Basil were-are-eloquent. I deplore of course the uses to which
their eloquence is put. Today they are most active as Galilean

[I26]


apologists, and I often wonder what they think of their old com-
panion who governs the state. Nothing good, I fear. When I became
emperor I asked them both to visit me at Constantinople. Gregory
agreed to come, but never did. Basil refused. Of the two, I prefer
Basil. He is plain, like me. He is misguided in his beliefs but honest.
I suspect Gregory of self-seeking.
"Who is this ?" Standing over us was a slender girl, with black
intelligent eyes and a mouth that was as quick to sneer as to smile.
Gregor7 introduced us; he said that I was from Cappadocia. She
was Macrina, a niece of Prohaeresius.
"I like your beard," she said, sitting down without invitation. "It
comes to a point. Most men's beards are like Gregory's, every
which way. Yours suggests a plan. Will you study with my uncle ?"
I said that I would. I was charmed by her. She wore her own
version of a student's cloak, in faded blue linen. Her bare arms
were firm and darkened by the sun; strong fingers tore idly
at the scraps of stale bread on the table; on the bench our thighs
touched.
"You'll like my uncle. He's much the best teacher in this chatter-
ing place. But you'll hate Athens. I do! The splitting of hairs. The
talk, talk, talk, and everyone trying to make a point, to pretend
that all this talk means something."
"You are now listening to what is known as 'Macrina's Lament',"
said Gregory.
"But it's true just the same." She pointed to him like an actress
in tragedy. "They are the worst: Gregory and Basil, the Twins of
argument . . ."
Gregory brightened. "You should have heard Basil's argument
yesterday when we were challenged on the virgin birth." Gregory
turned to me. "As I told you, there are many atheists in Athens.
And some of them have the devil's own cleverness. One in par-
ticular we despise . . ."
"One ? You despise everybody, Gregory!" Macrina sipped wine
from my cup, without invitation. "If ever there were a pair of
bishops, it's these two. You're not a bishop, are you ?" she chal-
lenged me agreeably.I shook my head.
"Not even close," said Gregory, and I detected something sly in
his voice.
"But a Christian ?" asked Macrina.
"He must be," said Gregory smoothly. "He has to be."
[~271


"Has to be ? Why ? It's not illegal to be a Hellenist, is it ? At least
not yet."
I loved her deeply then. We were the same. I looked at her with
sudden fondness as the fine if rather grubby fingers lifted and
drained my cup.
"I mean he cannot be because . . ." I frowned at Gregory; he
was not to tell her who I was. But he was on a different tack.
"... because he is a brilliant student and anyone who truly loves
learning loves God, loves Christ, loves the trinity.'
"Well, I don't." She set the cup down hard. "I wonder if he
does."
But I evaded. What had been Basil's defence of the virgin birth ?
"He was challenged on the University steps, yesterday, shortly
before noon." Gregory spoke precisely as though he were a
historian giving the details of a battle all the world would want to
know about. "A Cynic, a true Cynic," he added for my benefit,
"stopped Basil and said, 'You Christians claim that Christ was born
of a virgin.' Basil said that we do not merely claim it, we proclaim
it, for it is true. Our Lord was born without an earthly father. The
Cynic then said that this was entirely against nature, that it was
not possible for any creature to be born except through the union
of male and female. Then Basil said - there was quite a large crowd
gathered by now-Basil said, 'Vultures bring forth without
coupling.' Well, you should have heard the applause and laughter!
The Cynic went away and Basil was a hero, even among those
students who have no faith."
"At least they knew Aristotle," I said mildly.
But Macrina was not impressed. "Just because vultures don't
mate . . ."
"The female vulture is impregnated by the wind." Gregory is
one of those people who must always embellish the other person's
observation. Unfortunately, he is drawn to the obvious. He tells
what everyone already knows. But Macrina was relentless.
"Even if vultures don't mate . . ."
"Even? But they don't mate. That is a fact."
"Has anyone ever seen a vulture made fertile by the wind ?"
Macrina was mischievous.
"I suppose someone must have." Gregory's round eyes became
even rounder with irritation.
"But how could you tell? The wind is invisible. So how would you
know which particular wind- if any- made the bird conceive ?"

[~28]


"She is perverse." Gregory turned to me, much annoyed. "Be-
sides, if it were not true, Aristotle would not have said it was true
and we would not all agree today that it is indeed the truth."
"I'm not sure of the logic of that," began Macrina thoughtfully.
"She'll be condemned for atheism one of these days." Gregory
tried to sound playful; he failed.
Macrina laughed at him, a pleasant, low, unmalicious laugh. "All
right. A vulture's eggs are laid by a virgin bird. Accepted. What
has that to do with Christ's birth ? Mary was not a vulture. She was
a woman. Women conceive in only one way. I can't see that Basil's
answer to the Cynic was so crushing. What is true of the vulture is
not necessarily true of Mary."
"Basil's answer," said Gregory tightly, "was to the argument
used by the Cynic when he said that all things are conceived by
male and female. Well, if one thing is not conceived in this
fashion - and that was Basil's argument - then another might not
be and . . ."
"But 'might not' is not an argument. I might suddenly grow
wings and fly to Rome (I wish I could!) but I can't, I don't."
"There are no cases of human beings having wings, but there
is..."
"Icarus and Daedalus," began the valiant Macrina, but we were
saved by Basil's arrival. Gregory's face was dark with anger, and
the girl was beside herself with amusement.
Basil and I greeted one another warmly. He had changed con-
siderably since we were adolescents. He was now a fine-looking
man, tall and somewhat thin; unlike Gregory, he wore his hair
close-cropped. I teased him about this. "Short hair means a
bishop."
Basil smiled his amiable smile and said in a soft voice," 'May that
cup pass from me,'" a quotation from the Nazarene. But unlike the
carpenter, Basil was sincere. Today he leads precisely the life that I
should like for myself: withdrawn, ascetic, given to books and to
prayer. He is a true contemplative and I admire him very much,
despite his religion.
Macrina, having heard him call me Julian, suddenly said, "Isn't
the Emperor's cousin, the one called Julian, supposed to come to
Athens ?"
Basil looked with surprise at Gregory, who motioned for him to
be still. "Do you know the prince7" Macrina turned to me.
I nodded. "I know him. But not well." Solon's famous truth.

[~29]


Macrina nodded. "But of course you would. You were all at
Pergamon together. The Twins often discuss him."
I was embarrassed but amused. I have never been an eaves-
dropper, even in childhood. Not from any sense of virtue but
because I really do not want to know what people think of me
or, to be precise, what they say of me - often a different matter. I
can usually imagine the unpleasant judgments, for we are what
others need us to be. That is why our reputations change so often
and so drastically, reflecting no particular change in us, merely a
change in the mood of those who observe us. When things go well,
an emperor is loved; badly, hated. I never need to look in a mirror.
I see myself all too clearly in the eyes of those about me.
I was embarrassed not so much for what Macrina might say
about me but for what she might reveal about Gregory and Basil.
I would not have been surprised if they had a low opinion of
me. Intelligent youths of low birth tend to resent the intellectual
pretensions of princes. In their place, I would.
Gregory looked downright alarmed. Basil's face was inscrutable.
I tried to change the subject. I asked at what time her uncle would
be receiving but she ignored the question. "It's their chief distinc-
tion, knowing Julian. They discuss him by the hour. They speculate
on his chances of becoming emperor. Gregory thinks he will be
emperor. Basil thinks Constantius will kill him."
Though Basil knew where the conversation was tending, he was
fearless. "Macrina, how can you be so certain this is not one of the
Emperor's secret agents ?"
"Because you know him."
"We know criminals, too. Idolaters. Agents of the devil."
"Whoever saw a secret agent with that sort of beard ? Besides,
why should I care? I'm not plotting against the Emperor." She
turned to me, black eyes glowing. "If you are a secret agent, you'll
remember that, won't you? I worship the Emperor. My sun
rises and sets in his divinity. Every time I see that beautiful
face in marble, I want to weep, to cry out: Perfection, thou art
Constantius !"
Gregory positively hissed, not at all sure how I would take this
mockery. I was amused but uncomfortable. I confess it occurred to
me that perhaps Gregory or Basil or even Macrina might indeed be
a member of the secret police. If so, Macrina had already said quite
enough to have us all executed. That would be the saddest fate of
all: to die as the result of a joke !

[i~o]


"Don't be an old woman, Gregory!" Macrina turned to me.
"These two dislike Julian. I can't think why. Jealousy, I suppose.
Especially Gregory. He's very petty. Aren't you ?" Gregory was
now grey with terror. "They feel Julian is a dilettante and not
serious. They say his love of learning is just affectation. Basil feels
that his true calling is that of a general- if he lives, of course.
But Gregory thinks he's far too scatterbrained even for that. Yet
Gregory longs for Julian to be emperor. He wants to be friend to
an emperor. You're both terribly worldly, deep down, aren't you ?"
Gregory was speechless. Basil was alarmed but he showed
courage. "I would deny only the part about 'worldly'. I want
nothing Jn the world. In fact, next month I enter a monastery at
Caesarea where I shall be as far from the world as I can be, this
side of death."
Gregory rallied. "You do have a bitter tongue, Macrina." He
turned to me, attempting lightness. "She invents everything. She
loves to mock us. She is a pagan, of course. A true Athenian." He
could hardly contain his loathing of the girl or his fear of me.
Macrina laughed at him. "Anyway, I'm curious to meet the
prince." She turned to me. "Where will you live? With my uncle ?"
I said no, that I would stay with friends. She nodded. "My
uncle keeps a good house and never cheats. My father takes some
of the overflow and though he's honest he hates all students deeply,
hopelessly."
I laughed. The Twins laughed too, somewhat hollowly. Basil
then proposed that we go to the house of Prohaeresius. I settled
our account with the owner of the tavern. We went outside. In
the hot dust of the street, Macrina whispered in my ear, "I have
known all along that you were the prince."

Priscus: You will be aware of a number of ironies in what you
have just read. The unspeakable Gregory is due to preside over
the new Ecumenical Council. They say he will be the next bishop
of Constantinople. How satisfying to glimpse this noble bishop in
his ragged youth! Basil, who wanted only the contemplative life,
now governs the church in Asia as bishop of Caesarea. I liked Basil
during the brief period I knew him in Athens. He had a certain
fire, and a good mind. He might have been a first-rate historian had
he not decided to be a power in the church. But how can these
young men resist the chance to rise? Philosophy offers them
nothing; the church everything.


Julian was more wary of Gregory than I'd thought. But this
could be hindsight. When Julian was writing his memoir, he asked
me what I thought of Gregory and I assured him that if ever he
had an enemy it was that jackal. Julian disagreed. But what 1
said apparently had some effect. As I have told you before, I want
nothing to do with the publication of this memoir. Even so, if it is
published, I shall delight in the effect it will have on the new
bishop of Constantinople. He will not enjoy public reminder of
his pseudo-Cynic youth.
It is also amusing to compare Gregory's actual behaviour in
Athens with his own account of those days which he has given us
in the Invective he wrote shortly after Julian died. I have this
work in front of me as I write. At almost no point is it honest. For
instance, Gregory describes Julian's appearance in this way: "His
neck was unsteady, his shoulders always in motion, shrugging up
and down like a pair of scales, his eyes rolling and glancing from
side to side with an almost insane expression, his feet unsteady
and stumbling, his nostrils breathing insolence and disdain, the
expression of his face ridiculous, his bursts of laughter unrestrained
and coming in noisy gusts, his nods of assent and dissent quite
inappropriate, his speech stopping short and interrupted by his
taking a breath, his questions without sense or order, his answers
not a whit better than his questions . . ." This is not even good
caricature. Of course Julian did talk too much; he was enormously
eager to learn and to teach; he could often be silly. But he was
hardly the spastic creature Gregory describes. The malice of a
true Christian attempting to destroy an opponent is something
unique in the world. No other religion ever considered it necessary
to destroy others because they did not share the same beliefs. At
worst, another man's belief might inspire amusement or contempt
- the Egyptians and their animal gods, for instance. Yet those who
worshipped the Bull did not try to murder those who worshipped
the Snake, or to convert them by force from Snake to Bull. No
evil ever entered the world quite so vividly or on such a vast scale
as Christianity did. I don't need to tell you that my remarks are
for your eyes alone and not for publication. I put them down now
in this uncharacteristic way because I find myself more moved
than I thought I would be as I recall that season in Athens, not
only through the eyes of my own memory but through those of
Julian.
Gregory also maintains that he knew even then that Julian was


a Hellenist, secretly conspiring against Christianity. This is not
true. Gregory might have guessed the first (though I doubt it); he
certainly could not have known that Julian was conspiring against
the state religion, since at that time Julian was hardly conspiring
against anything. He was under constant surveillance. He wanted
only to survive. Yet Gregory writes, "I used these very words
about him: 'What an evil the Roman State is nourishing,' though I
prefaced them by a wish that I might wove a false prophet." If
Gregory had said this to anyone, it would have been the talk of
Athens. It would also have been treason, since Julian was the heir
of Constantius. If Gregory ever made such a prophecy, it must
have been whispered in Basil's ear when they were in bed together.
I find Julian's reference to Macrina amusing and disingenuous.
In the proper place I shall tell you the true story, which you may
or may not use, as you see fit. Julian's version is true only up to
a point. I suppose he wanted to protect her reputation, not to
mention his own.
I see Macrina occasionally. She was always plain. 5he is now
hideous. But so am I. So is all the world, old. But in her day Macfinn
was the most interesting girl in Athens.

]ulian Augustus
Even today, Prohaeresius is a man I greatly admire. I say "even
today" because he is a Galilean and has opposed my edict forbid-
ding Gallleans to teach the classics. Though I went out of my way
to exempt him from this ban, he has gone into retirement. When
I met him, he had been for forty years the city's most famous
teacher of rhetoric. His house is a large one near the Illssos River.
At all hours it is- or was- crowded with students asking ques-
tions, answering questions.
At first I stood at the back of the crowded dim room and watched
Prohaeresius as he sat comfortably in a large wooden chair. He
was then eighty years of age: tall, vigorous, with a powerful chest,
extraordinary black eyes, not unlike those of his niece Macrina.
His hair was white and thick and curled richly upon his brow,
like seafoam on a beach. He was in every way a handsome man,
with a voice to match. In fact, he was such a master of eloquence
that when my cousin Constans sent him on a mission to Rome,
the Romans not only admitted that he was the most eloquent
speaker they had ever heard, they set up a bronze statue to him in
the forum with the inscription: "From Rome, the Queen of Cities,


to Prohaeresius, the King of Eloquence." I mention this to emphasize
his gifts, for the people of the city of Rome are the most iaded and
bored in the world. Or so everyone tells me. I have yet to see my
capital city.
Prohaeresius was consoling a student who complained of poverty.
"I make no case for poverty. But it is at least bearable in youth.
Salt to the day. When I first came from Armenia to Athens, I lived
with a friend in an attic, just off the Street of the Slaughter-houses.
Between us we had one cloak and one blanket. In winter we broke
the day in watches. When he went out, wearing the cloak, I would
huddle under the blanket. When he came back, I would take the
cloak while he kept warm in bed. You have no idea how good this
is for one's style. I would prepare speeches of such eloquence that
I brought tears to my own eyes as I declaimed them into that old
blanket, teeth chattering from the cold." There was an amused
murmur. I had the sense that this was a favourite story, often
told.
Then Gregory spoke to him in a low voice. Prohaeresius nodded
and got to his feet. I was startled to see that he was nearer seven
than six feet tall.
"We have a visitor," he said to the others. All eyes were turned
to me and I looked nervously to the floor. "A scholar of some
renown." Despite the irony of this, he said it amiably. "The cousin
of a young friend of mine, now dead. Fellow scholars, the most
noble Julian, heir to all the material world, as we are heirs to things
spiritual, or try to be."
There was a moment of confusion. The students were uncertain
whether to behave towards me as a member of the imperial family
or as a student. Many of those who were seated rose; some bowed;
others simply stared curiously. Macrina whispered in my ear, "Go
on, you dummy ! Speak to him !"
I pulled myself together and made a speech, very brief and to the
point, or so I thought. Macrina told me later that it was intermin-
able and pretentious. Fortunately, now that I am Emperor all my
speeches are considered graceful and to the point. How one's style
improves with greatness !
Prohaeresius then took me round among the students, intro-
ducing me to this one and that one. They were shy, even though
I had carefully made the point that I intended to come and go
at the University like any other student.
Prohaeresius continued his discourse a little while longer. Then


he dismissed the students and led me into the atrium of his house.
The sun slanted now from the west. From upstairs I could hear the
laughter and scuffling of the students who boarded there. Occasion-
ally they would come out on the gallery to get a glimpse of me.
But when they caught me looking at them, they pretended they
had business in someone else's room. I would have given a good
deal to have lived anonymously in one of those bare rooms.
I was placed in the chair of honour beside the fountain, as
Prohaeresius presented his wife Amphiclea to me. She is a sad
woman who has never got over the deaths of two daughters. She
spoke seldom. Obviously philosophy has been no consolation to
her. I also met Macrina's father, Anatolius, a boorish man who
looked like an innkeeper, which he was. Macrina was not fond of
him.
Basil and Gregory excused themselves. Gregory was most win-
ning. He offered to take me to all the lectures; he would be my
guide. Basil was equally pleasant though he said that he might have
to excuse himself from most expeditions. "It's only a few months
before I go back. I have a great deal to do, if I'm spared." And
he pressed both hands to his middle, with a look of mock agony.
"My liver feels as if Prometheus's vultures were tearing at it!"
"Stay out of draughts, then," I found myself saying too quickly,
"or you may conceive and lay a vulture's egg!" Prohaeresius and
Macrina both got the allusion and burst out laughing. Basil was not
much amused and I regretted the quickness with which I had
spoken. I often do this. It is a fault. Gregory shook my hand fondly;
then he and Basil left. To this day he is probably afraid that I shall
have my revenge on him for what he said about me. But I am not
like that, as the world knows.
We drank wine in the garden. Prohaeresius asked me about
matters at court. He was most interested in politics; in fact, when
my cousin Constans wanted to ennoble him as a sign of admiration,
he offered Prohaeresius the honorary title of praetorian prefect.
But the old man said that he preferred to be food comptroller for
Athens (a significant title Constantius always reserved for him-
self). Then, exercising the authority that went with his title, he got
the corn supply of several islands diverted to Athens. Needless to
say, he is a hero to the city.
Prohaeresius was suspicious of me from the beginning. And for
all his genialit7 he seemed by his questions to be trying to get me
to confess to some obscure reason for visiting Athens. He spoke


of the splendours of Milan and Rome, the vitality of Constan-
tinople, the elegant viciousness of Antioch, the high intellectual
tone of Pergamon and Nicomedia; he even praised Caesarea- "the
Metropolis of Letters", as Gregory always refers to it, and not
humorously. Any one of these cities, Prohaeresius declared, ought
to attract me more than Athens. I told him bluntly that I had come
to see him.
"And the beautiful city ?" Macrina suddenly interrupted.
"And the beautiful city," I repeated dutifuliy.
Prohaeresius rose suddenly. "Let us take a walk by the river,"
he said. "Just the two of us."
At the Ilissos we stopped opposite the Kallirrhoe Fountain, a sort
of stone island so hollowed and shaped by nature that it does
indeed resemble a fountain; from it is drawn sacred water. We sat
on the bank, among long grass brown from August heat. Plane
trees sheltered us from the setting sun. The day was golden; the
air still. All around us students read or slept. Across the river,
above a row of dusty trees, rose Hymettos. I was euphoric.
"My dear boy," Prohaeresius addressed me now without cere-
mony as father to son. "You are close to the fire."
It was a most unexpected beginning. I lay full length on the
thick brown turf while he sat cross-legged beside me, very erect,
his back to the bole of a plane tree. I looked up at him, noting how
rounded and youthful the neck was, how firm the jaw line for one
so old.
"Fire ? The sun's ? The earth's ?"
Prohaeresius smiled. "Neither. Nor hell's fire, as the Christians
say."
"As you believe.~" I was not certain to what extent he was a
Galilean; even now, I don't know. He has always been evasive. I
cannot believe such a fine teacher and Hellenist could be one of
them, but anything is possible, as the gods daily demonstrate.
"We are not ready for that dialogue just yet," he said. He
gestured towards the swift shrunken river at our feet. "There, by
the way, is where Plato's Phaidros is set. They had good talk that
day, and on this same bank.""Shall we equal it ?"
"Some day, perhaps." He paused. I waited, as though for an
omen. "You will be emperor one day." The old man said this
evenly, as though stating fact.
"I don't want to be. I doubt if I shall be. Remember that of all


our family, only Constantius and I are left. As the others went, so
I shall go. That's why l'm here. I wanted to see Athens first."
"Perhaps you mean that. But I . . . well, I confess to a weak-
ness for oracles." He paused significantly. That was enough. One
word more and he would have committed treason. It is forbidden
by law to consult an oracle concerning the emperor - an excellent
law, by the way, for who would ever obey a ruler the date of
whose death was known and whose successor had been identified ?
I must say that I was shocked at the old man's candour. But also
pleased that he felt he could trust me.
"Is it predicted ?" I was as bold as he. I incriminated myself,
hoping to prove to him my own good faith.
He noddedú "Not the day, not the year, merely the factú But it
will be tragedy."
"For me ? Or for the state ?"
"No one knows. The oracle was not explicit." He smiled. "They
seldom are. I wonder why we put such faith in them."
"Because the gods do speak to us in dreams and reveries. That
is a fact. Both Homer and Plato . . ."
"Perhaps they do. Anyway, the habit of believing is an old one
ú . . I knew all your family." Idly he plucked at the brown grass
with thick-veined old hands. "Constans was weak. But he had
good qualities. He was not the equal of Constantius, of course. You
are."
"Don't say that."
"I merely observe." He turned to me suddenly. "Now it is my
guess, Julian, that you mean to restore the worship of the old
gods."
My breath stopped. "You presume too much." My voice shook
despite a hardness of tone which would have done justice to Con-
stantius himself. Sooner or later one learns the Caesarian trick: that
abrupt shift in tone which is harsh reminder of the rod and axe we
wield over all men.
"I hope that I do," said the old man, serenely.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken like that. You are the
master."
He shook his head. "No, you are the master, or will be soon.
I want only to be useful. To warn you that despite what your
teacher Maximus may say, the Christians have won."
"I don't believe it !" l:iercely and tactlessly I reminded him that
only a small part of the Roman population was actually Galilean.

[~37]


"Why do you call them Galileans ?" he asked, interrupting my
harangue.
"Because Galilee was where he came from !"
Prohaeresius saw through me. "You fear the word 'Christian',"
he said, "for it suggests that those who call themselves that are
indeed followers of a king, a great lord."
"A mere name cannot affect what they are." I evaded him. But
he is right. The name is a danger to us.
I resumed my argument: most of the civilized world is neither
Hellenist nor Galilean, but suspended in between. With good
reason, a majority of the people hate the Galileans. Too many inno-
cents have been slaughtered in their mindless doctrinal quarrels.
I need only mention the murder of Bishop George at Alexandria
to recall vividly to those who read this the savagery of that religion
not only towards its enemies (whom they term "impious") but also
towards its own followers.
Prohaeresius tried to argue with me, but though he is the world's
most eloquent man, I would not listen to him. Also, he was un-
characteristically artless in his defence of the Galileans, which
made me suspect he was not one of them. Like so many, he is in a
limbo between Hellenism and the new death cult. Nor do I think
he is merely playing it safe. He is truly puzzled. The old gods do
seem to have failed us, and I have always accepted the possibility
that they have withdrawn from human affairs, terrible as that is to
contemplate. But mind has not failed us. Philosophy has not failed
us. From Homer to Plato to Iamblichos the true gods continue to be
defined in their many aspects and powers: multiplicity contained
by the One, all emanating from truth. Or as Plotinus wrote: "Of
its nature the soul loves GOd and longs to be at one with him." As
long as the soul of man exists, there is God. It is all so clear.
I realized that I was making a speech to a master of eloquence,
but I could not stop myself. Dozing students sat up and looked at
me curiously, convinced I was mad, for I was waving my arms in
great arcs as I am prone to do when passionate. Prohaeresius took
it all in good part.
"Believe what you must," he said at last.
"But you believe, too! You believe in what I believe. You must
or you could not teach as you do."
"I see it differently. That is all. But try to be practical. The thing
has taken hold. The Christians govern the world through Con-
stantius. They have had almost thirty years of wealth and power.



They will not surrender easily. You come too late, Julian. Of course
if you were Constantine and this were forty years ago and we were
pondering these same problems, then I might say to you: "Strike!
Outlaw them! Rebuild the temples!' But now is not then. You
are not Constantine. They have the world. The best one can hope
to do is civilize them. That is why I teach. That is why I can never
help you."
I respected him that day. I respect him now. If he is still alive
when this campaign is ended, I shall want to talk to him again.
How we all long to make conversions !
Like two conspirators, we returned to his house. We now had a
bond between us which could not be broken, for each had told the
other true and dangerous things. Fear defined our friendship and
gave it savour.
In the dim atrium, students were again gathered, talking strenu-
ously all at once as students will. When they saw us enter, they
fell silent. I daresay the sight of me alarmed them. But Prohaeresius
told them I was to be treated as just another student.
"Not that he is, of course, in spite of the beard and the old
clothes." They laughed. "He is different from us." I was about to
say that even members of Constantine's family have some (if not
much) resemblance to the human family, when he said: "He is a
true philosopher. He has chosen to be what we must be." This was
accepted with some delight. Not until a day later did the irony of
what he said occur to me.
Macrina took me by the arm and said, "You must meet Priscus.
He is the most disagreeable man in Athens."
Priscus sat on a stool, surrounded by students. He is a lean,
cold-faced man, nearly as tall as Prohaeresius. He rose when we
approached him and murmured, "Welcome." I was pleased to
meet this great teacher whom I had long known by reputation, for
he is as famous for his wit as he is for his ambiguities. He is also
completely without enthusiasm, which right off made him a good
foil for me since I am often excited by the trivial. We were friends
from the start. He is with me now in Persia.
"Try to pin him down," said Macrina, turning to me, her hand
on Priscus's lean arm as though presenting him to me for a bout of
wrestling, "on anything. We think of him as the master of evasion.
He never argues."
With a look of distaste which I have come to know so well (and
fear when it is turned on me!), Priscus got his arm loose from

[~39]


Macrina's grasp. "Why should I argue ? I know what I know. And
others are always quick to tell me what they know, or think they
know. There is no need for confrontation."
"But surely you must find that new thoughts occur in argu-
ment?" I was naive, of course; I pressed him hard. "After all,
Socrates led others to wisdom through argument and conversation."
"The two are not quite the same thing. I teach through conversa-
tion, or try to. But argument is a vice in this city. Glib men can
almost always score points off wiser but less well-spoken men.
Nowadays style in speaking is everything; content nothing. Most
of the Sophists are actors- worse, they are lawyers. And the
young men pay to hear them perform, like street singers."
"Priscus attacks me!" Prohaeresius had joined us. He was amused
at what was obviously an old discussion.
"You know what I think." Priscus was severe. "You are the
worst of the lot because you are the best performer." He turned
to me. "He is so eloquent that every Sophist in Athens hates
him."
"All but you," observed Macrina.
Priscus ignored her. "A few years ago his confreres decided that
he was too popular. So they bribed the proconsul..."
"Careful," said Macrina. "We must not speak of bribed officials
in front of what may one day be the greatest official of them all."
"Bribed the proconsul," said Priscus as though she had not
spoken, "to exile our host. This was done. But then the proconsul
retired and was succeeded by a younger man who was so indignant
at what had happened that he allowed Prohaeresius to return.
But the Sophists did not give up easily. They continued to plot
against their master. So the proconsul held a meeting at the
University . . ."
"At my uncle's suggestion."
Prohaeresius was amused. "Macrina allows us no secrets. Yes,
I put him up to it. I wanted to get my enemies all together in one
place in order that I might . . ."
"Dispatch them," said Macrina.
"Win them," said her uncle.
"Beat them," said Macrina.
Priscus continued. "It was a formidable display. Everyone was
gathered in the main hall of the University. Friends were nervous.
Enemies were active. The proconsul arrived. He took charge of
the assembly. He announced that a theme should be proposed for

[z4o]


Prohaeresius to argue. Any theme. The assembly could choose it.
At first no one said a word."
"Until my uncle saw two of his very worst enemies skulking in
the back. He called on them to set a theme. They tried to escape,
but the proconsul ordered his guards to bring them back."
Priscus looked dour indeed. "It was the guards, I suggest, that
won the day for virtue."
"The honeyed tongue of Priscus!" The old man laughed. "You
may be right. Though I suspect the bad judgment of the enemy
helped most, for they set me a theme of remarkable obscenity and
limited scope."
"Which side of a woman is the most pleasing, front or back."
Macrina grinned.
"But he accepted the challenge," said Priscus. "He spoke with
such effectiveness that the audience maintained a Pythagorean
silence."
"He also insisted that sl~orthand reporters from the law court
take down every word." In an oblique way, Macrina was proud
of her uncle's prowess. "He also insisted there be no applause."
"It was a memorable speech," Priscus continued. "First, he pre-
sented the argument in all its particulars. Then he took one side
ú . . the front. After an hour, he said, 'Now observe carefully
whether I remember all the arguments that I used earlier.' He then
repeated the speech in all its intricate detail, only this time he took
the opposite point of view . . . the back. In spite of the pro-
consul's order, applause filled the hall. It was the greatest triumph
of memory and eloquence heard in our time."
"And . . . ?" Prohaeresius knew that Priscus would not finish
without a sudden twist to the knife.
"And? Your enemies were completely routed and where before
they despised you, now they hate you." Priscus turned to me.
"They nearly had his life the next year. They still plot against
him."
"Which proves ?" Prohaeresius was as curious as I to learn what
Priscus was up to.
"That victories in argument are useless. They are showy. What
is spoken always causes more anger than any silence. Debate of
this sort convinces no one. Aside from the jealousies such a victory
arouses, there is the problem of the vanquished. I speak now of
philosophers. The one who is defeated, even if he realizes at last
that he is fighting truth, suffers from having been publicly proved
[~4~]


wrong. He then becomes savage and is apt to end by hating philo-
sophy. I would prefer not to lose anyone for civilization."
"Well said," Prohaeresius agreed.
"Or, perhaps," said the devilish Macrina, "you yourself don't
want to lose an argument, knowing that you are apt to turn bitter
as a result of public humiliation. Oh, Priscus, you are vain! You
won't compete for fear you might not win. As it is, none of us
knows how wise you are. Silence is his legend, Prince. And he is
all the greater for that. Each time Prohaeresius speaks he limits
himself, for words limit everything, being themselves limited.
That's why Priscus is wisest of all: silence cannot be judged.
Silence masks all things or no thing. Only Priscus can tell us what
his silence conceals, but since he won't, we suspect him great."
Priscus did not answer. Macrina was the only woman I have
ever known who could speak with so many odd twistings and
turnings. Irony is not usual to woman, but then Macrina was not
in any way usual. Before we had an opportunity to see if Priscus
could answer her, we were interrupted by the arrival of my body-
guard, as well as an officer of the proconsul's staff. Word had
already spread throughout Athens that I was at the house of
Prohaeresius. I was again taken into custody.

Priscus: Macrina was a bitch. We all detested her, but because she
was the niece of Prohaeresius we endured her. Julian's description
of our first meeting is not accurate. That is to say, what he re-
members is not what I remember. For instance, he says that his
bodyguard arrived before I answered Macrina. This is not true. I
told her then and there that my silence masked compassion for
the intellectual shortcomings of others since I did not wish to
wound anyone, even her. This caused some laughter. Then the
guards arrived.
For the historic record I should give my first impression of
Julian. He was a handsome youth, thick in the chest like all his
family, and muscular, a gift of nature since in those days he
seldom exercised. He was far too busy talking. Gregory was not
entirely inaccurate when he described Julian's breathless and con-
tinual conversation. In fact, I used to say to him, "How can you
expect to learn anything when you do all the talking ?" He would
laugh excitedly and say, "But I talk and listen at the same time.
That is my art!" Which perhaps was true. I was always surprised
at how much he did absorb.

[~42]




Not until I read the memoir did I know about the conversation
with Prohaeresius. I never suspected the old man of such cunning,
or boldness. It was a dangerous thing to admit to a strange prince
that he had consulted an oracle. But he always had a weakness
for oracles.
I never liked the old man much. I always felt he had too much
of the demagogue in him and too little of the philosopher. He also
took his role as a great old man seriously. He made speeches on any
subject, anywhere. He cultivated princes the way bishops cultivate
relics. He was a formidable orator, but his writings were banal.
Let me tell you something about Macrina since Julian is not
candid and if I don't tell you you will never know. They had a
love affair which was the talk of the city. Macrina behaved
with her usual clownishness, discussing the affair with everyone in
intimate detail. She declared that Julian was a formidable lover, in-
dicating that her own experience had been considerable. Actually,
she was probably a virgin when they met. There were not many
men of her set who would have made the effort to make her a non-
virgin. After all, Athens is famous for the complaisance of its
girls, and not many men like to bed a talking-woman, especially
when there are so many quiet ones to choose from. I am positive
that Julian was Macrina's first lover.
There was a funny story going around at about this time, no
doubt apocryphal. Julian and Macrina were overheard while
making love. Apparently all during the act each one continued to
talk. Macrina is supposed to have confuted the Pythagoreans while
Julian restated the Platonic powers, all this before and during
orgasm. They were well matched.
Julian seldom mentioned Macrina to me. He was embarrassed,
knowing that I knew of the affair. The last time we spoke of her

was in Persia when he
know what had become
looked. I told him that
married an Alexandrian
has three children. I did
son.

was writing the memoir. He wanted to
of her, whom she had married, how she
she was somewhat heavy, that she had
merchant who lived at Piraeus, that she
not tell him that the oldest child was his

Yes. That is the famous scandal. Some seven months after Julian
left Athens, Macrina gave birth. During the pregnancy she stayed
with her father. Despite her daring ways she was surprisingly con-
ventional in this matter. She was desperate for a husband even
though it was widely known that the bastard was Julian's

[~]


and therefore a mark of honour for the mother. Luckily, the
Alexandrian married her and declared the child was his.
I saw the boy occasionally while he was growing up. He is now
in his twenties and looks somewhat like his father, which makes
it hard for me to be with him. Stoic though I am, in certain
memories there is pain. Fortunately, the boy lives now in Alex-
andria, where he runs his stepfather's trading office. He has,
Macrina once told me, no interest in philosophy. He is a devout
Christian. So that is the end of the house of Constantine. Did Julian
know that he had a son ? I think not. Macrina swears she never told
him, and I almost believe her.
A few years ago I met Macrina in what we Athenians call the
Roman agora. We greeted one another amiably, and sat together
on the steps of the water-clock tower. I asked about her son.
"He is beautiful ! He looks exactly like his father, an emperor, a
god!" Macrina has lost none of her old fierce flow of language,
though the edge to her wit is somewhat blunted. "But I don't
regret it."
"The resemblance ? Or being the mother of Julian's son ?"
She did not answer. She looked absently across the agora,
crowded as always with lawyers and tax collectors. Her dark eyes
were as glittering as ever, though her face has grown jowly and
the heavy bosom fallen with maternity and age. She turned to me
abruptly. "He wanted to marry me. Did you know that, Priscus ?
I could have been Empress of Rome. What a thought ! Would you
have liked that ? Do you think I would have been... decorative ?
Certainly unusual. How many empresses have been philosophers
in their own tight ? It would have been amusing. I should have
worn a lot of jewellery, even though I detest ornaments. Look at
me !" She tugged at the simple garment she wore. Despite her hus-
band's wealth, Macrina wore no tings, no brooches, no combs in
her hair, no jewels in her ears. "But empresses must look the part.
They have no choice. Of course I should have had a bad character.
I would have modelled myself on Messalina."
"You ? Insatiable?" I could not help laughing.
"Absolutely !" The old edge returned briefly; the black eyes were
humorous. "I'm a faithful wife now because I am fat and no one
wants me. At least no one I would want wants me. But I'm drawn
to beauty. I should love to be a whore! Except I'd want to choose
the clientele, which is why I should have loved being empress!
History would have loved me, too! Macrina the Insatiable!"

[~]


Anyone who saw us on those steps would have thought: what
an eminently respectable couple! An old philosopher and a digni-
fied matron, solemnly discussing the price of corn or the bishop's
latest sermon. Instead Macrina was intoning a hymn to lust.
"What would Julian have thought?" I managed to interiect
before she gave too many specific details of her appetite. It is
curious how little interested we are in the sexual desires of those
who do not attract us.
"I wonder." She paused. "I'm not sure he would have minded,
No. No. No, he would have minded. Oh, not out of jealousy. I don't
think he was capable of that. He simply disliked excess. So do I,
for that matter, but then I have never had the chance to be exces-
sive, except in food, of course." She patted herself. "You see the
result ? Of course I could still be a beauty in Persia. They revel in
fat women." Then: "Did he ever mention me to you ? Later? When
you were with him in Persia ?"
I shook my head. I'm not certain why I lied to her, unless dis-
like is sufficient motive.
"No. I suppose he wouldn't." She did not seem distressed. One
must admire the strength of her egotism. "Before he went back
to Milan, he told me that if he lived he would marry me. Contrary
to gossip, he did not know that I was pregnant then. I never told
him. But I did tell him that I wanted to be his wife, although if
Constantius had other plans for him (which of course he did) I
would not grieve. Oh, I was a formidable girl !""Did you ever hear from him again ?"
She shook her head. "Not even a letter. But shortly after he be-
came Emperor he told the new proconsul of Greece to come see
me and ask if there was anything I wanted. I shall never forget the
look of surprise on the proconsul's face when he saw me. One look
assured him that Julian could not have had any amatory interest
in this fat lady. He was puzzled, poor man... Do you think Julian
knew about our son ? It was not the best-kept secret."
I said I did not think so. And I do not think so. I certainly never
told him, and who else would have dared ?"Did you know Julian's wife ?"
I nodded. "In Gaul. She was much older than he. And very
plain."
"So I've heard. I was never jealous. After all, he was forced to
marry her. Was he really celibate after she died ?"
"As far as I know."

[~45]


Anyone who saw us on those steps would have thought: what
an eminently respectable couple! An old philosopher and a digni-
fied matron, solemnly discussing the price of corn or the bishop's
latest sermon. Instead Macrina was intoning a hymn to lust.
"What would Julian have thought?" I managed to interiect
before she gave too many specific details of her appetite. It is
curious how little interested we are in the sexual desires of those
who do not attract us.
"I wonder." She paused. "I'm not sure he would have mindect,
No. No. No, he would have minded. Oh, not out of iealousy. I don't
think he was capable of that. He simply disliked excess. So do I,
for that matter, but then I have never had the chance to be exces-
sive, except in food, of course." She patted herself. "You see the
result ? Of course I could still be a beauty in Persia. The,/revel in
fat women." Then: "Did he ever mention me to you ? Later ? When
you were with him in Persia ?"
I shook my head. I'm not certain why I lied to her, unless dis-
like is sufficient motive.
"No. I suppose he wouldn't." She did not seem distressed. One
must admire the strength of her egotism. "Before he went back
to Milan, he told me that if he lived he would marry me. Contrary
to gossip, he did not know that I was pregnant then. I never told
him. But I did tell him that I wanted to be his wife, although if
Constantius had other plans for him (which of course he did) I
would not grieve. Oh, I was a formidable girl!""Did you ever hear from him again ?"
She shook her head. "Not even a letter. But shortly after he be-
came Emperor he told the new proconsul of Greece to come see
me and ask if there was anything I wanted. I shall never forget the
look of surprise on the proconsul's face when he saw me. One look
assured him that Julian could not have had any amatory interest
in this fat lady. He was puzzled, poor man... Do you think Julian
knew about our son ? It was not the best-kept secret."
I said I did not think so. And I do not think so. I certainly never
told him, and who else would have dared ?"Did you know Julian's wife ?"
I nodded. "In Gaul. She was much older than he. And very
plain."
"5o I've heard. I was never jealous. After all, he was forced to
marry her. Was he really celibate after she died ?"
"As far as I know."

[~45]


"He was strange! I'm sure the Christians would have made a
saint out of him if he had been one of theirs, and his poor bones
would be curing liver complaints at this very moment. Well, that
is all over, isn't it?" She glanced at the water clock behind us. "I'm
late. How much do you bribe the tax assessor ?""Hippia looks after those matters."
"Women are better at such things. It has to do with details. We
delight in them. We are children of the magpie." She rose heavily,
with some difficulty. She steadied herself against the white marble
wall of the tower. "Yes, I should have liked to have been Empress
of Rome."
"I doubt it. If you had been empress, you would be dead by now.
The Christians would have killed you."
"Do you think I would have minded that ?" She turned full on
me and the large black eyes blazed like obsidian in the sun. "Don't
you realize- can't you tell just by looking at me, my dear wise
old Priscus- that not a day has passed in twenty years I haven't
wished I were dead!"
Macrina left me on the steps. As I watched the blunt
figure waddle through the crowd towards the magistrate's office,
I recalled her as she had been years before and I must say for a
moment I was touched by the urgenc~ of that cry from the heart.
But it does not alter the fact that she was and is a sublimely dis-
agreeable woman. I've not talked to her since that day, though we
always nod when we see one another in the street.


VIII

Julian Augustus
A week after I arrived in Athens I met the Hierophant of Greece.
Since I did not want the proconsul to know of this meeting, it
was arranged to take place in the Library of Hadrian, a not much
frequented building midway between the Roman and the Athenian
agoras.
At noon I arrived at the library and went straight to the north
reading room, enjoying as I always do the musty dry odour of
papyrus and ink which comes from the tall niches where the
scrolls and codices are kept. The high room with its coffered ceiling
(for which we must thank Antinofis's protector) was empty. Here
I waited for the Hierophant. I was extremely nervous, for he i~ the
holiest of all men. I am forbidden by law to write his name but I
can say that he belongs to the family of the Eumolpidae, one of
the two families from which Hierophants are traditionally drawn.
He is not only High Priest of Greece, he is custodian and interpreter
of the mysteries of Eleusis which go back at least two thousand
years, if not to the beginning of our race. Those of us who have
been admitted to the mysteries may not tell what we have seen or
what we know. Even so, as Pindar wrote: "Happy is he who,
having seen these rites, goes below the hollow earth; for he knows
the end of life and he knows its god-sent beginning." Sophocles
described initiates as "Thrice-happy mortals, who having seen
those rites depart for Hades; for them alone is it granted to have
true life there; to the rest, evil." I quote from memory. (Note to
secretary: Correct quotations, if they are wrong.)
Eleusis is a city fourteen miles from Athens. For two thousand
years the mysteries have been celebrated in that place, for it was
at Eleusis that Persephone returned from the underworld to which
she had been stolen by the death-god Hades and made his queen.
When Persephone first vanished, her mother Demeter, the harvest
goddess, sought her for nine days, neither eating nor drinking. (As
I tell this story initiates will see the mystery unfold. But no one
else may know what is meant.) On the tenth day Demeter came to
Eleusis. She was received by the king and queen, who gave her a
pitcher of barley water flavoured with mint which she drank all

[~473


at once. When the king's eldest son said, "How greedily you
drink!" Demeter turned him into a lizard. But then, remorseful
over what she had done, she conferred great powers upon the
king's youngest son, Triptolemus. She gave him seed corn, a
wooden plough and a chariot drawn by serpents; he then travelled
the earth teaching men agriculture. She did this for him not only
to make up for what in her anger she had done to his brother,
but also because Triptolemus was able to tell her what had hap-
pened to her daughter. He had been in the fields when the earth
suddenly opened before him. Then a chariot drawn by black
horses appeared, coming from the sea. The driver was Hades; in
his arms he held Persephone. As the chariot careered at full speed
into the cavern, the earth closed over them. Now Hades is brother
to Zeus, king of the gods, and he had stolen the girl with Zeus's
connivance. When Demeter learned this, she took her revenge.
She bade the trees not to bear fruit and the earth not to flower.
Suddenly, the world was barren. Men starved. Zeus capitulated:
if Persephone had not yet eaten the food of the dead, she might
return to her mother. As it turned out, Persephone had eaten seven
pomegranate seeds and this was enough to keep her for ever in
the underworld. But Zeus arranged a compromise. Six months of
the year she would remain with Hades, as queen of Tartarus. The
remaining six months she would join her mother in the world
above. That is why the cold barren time of the year is six months
and the warm fruitful time six months. Demeter also gave the fig
tree to Attica, and forbade the cultivation of beans. This holy story
is acted out in the course of the mysteries. I cannot say more about
it. The origin of the ceremony goes back to Crete and, some say,
to Libya. It is possible that those places knew similar mysteries,
but it is a fact that Eleusis is the actual place where Persephone
returned from the underworld. I have myself seen the cavern from
which she emerged.
Now: for those who have been initiated, I have in the lines above
given in the form of a narrative a clear view of what happens
after death. Through number and symbol, I have in a page revealed
everything. But the profane may not unravel the mystery. They
will merely note that I have told an old story of the old gods.
The Hierophant entered the reading room. He is a short plump
man, not in the least impressive to look at. He saluted me gravely.
His voice is powerful and he speaks old Greek exactly the way it
was spoken two thousand years ago, for in the long descent of his

[~48]


family the same words have been repeated in exactly the same
way from generation to generation. It is awesome to think that
Homer heard what we still hear.
"I have been busy. I am sorry. But this is the sacred month. The
mysteries begin in a week." So he began, prosaically.
I told him that I wished to be initiated into all the mysteries:
the lesser, the greater, and the highest. I realized that this would
be difficult to arrange on such short notice, but I had not much
time.
"It can be done, of course. But you will need to study hard. Have
you a good memory F'
I said that I still retained most of Homer. He reminded me that
the mysteries last for nine days and that there are many passwords,
hymns and prayers which must be learned before the highest
mystery can be revealed. "You must not falter." The Hierophant
was stern. I said that I thought I could learn what I needed to
know in a week, for I do indeed have a good memory; at least it is
good when properly inspired.
I was candid. I told him that if I lived, it was my hope to support
Hellenism in its war with the Galileans.
He was abrupt. "It is too late," he said, echoing Prohaeresius.
"Nothing you can do will change what is about to happen."
I had not expected such a response. "Do you know the future ?"
"I am Hierophant," he said simply. "The last Hierophant of
Greece. I know many things, all tragic."
I refused to accept this. "But how can you be the last ? Why,
for centuries . . ."
"Prince, these things are written at the beginning. No one may
tamper with fate. When I die, I shall be succeeded not by a member
of our family but by a priest from another sect. He will be in name,
but not in fact, the final Hierophant. Then the temple at Eleusis
will be destroyed-all the temples in all of Greece will be des~
troyed. The barbarians will come. The Christians will prevail.
Darkness will fall.""For ever ?"
"Who can say ? The goddess has shown me no more than what
I have told you. With me, the true line ends. With the next
Hierophant, the mysteries themselves will end."
"I cannot believe it!"
"That alters nothing."
"But if I were to become Emperor . . ."


"It would make no difference."
"Then obvioasly, I shall not become Emperor."
I smiled at this subtlety, for we had got around the law forbid-
ding prophecy.
"Whether you are Emperor or not, Eleusis will be in ruins before
the century is done."
I looked at him closely. We were sitting on a long bench be-
neath a high latticed window. Lozenges of light superimposed their
own designs upon the tiled floor at our feet. Despite his terrible
conviction, this small fat man with his protuberant eyes and fat
hands was perfectly composed. I have never known such self-
containment, even in Constantius.
"I refuse to believe," I said at last, "that there is nothing we
can do."
He shrugged. "We shall go on as long as we can, as we always
have." He looked at me solemnly. "You must remember that be-
cause the mysteries come to an end makes them no less true. Those
who were initiated will at least be fortunate in the underworld. Of
course one pities those who come after us. But what is to be must
be." He rose with dignity, his small plump body held tightly erect,
as though by will he might stiffen the soft flesh. "I shall instruct
you myself. We shall need several hours a day. Come to my house
tonight." With a small bow he withdrew.
During the weeks that followed, we saw each other every day.
Yet I came to know the Hierophant no better. On any subject not
connected with the mysteries, he refused to speak. I gave up talk-
ing to him, accepting him as what he was: a palpable link with the
holy past but not a human companion.
I need not describe the celebrations which precede the initiation,
since they are known to everyone. Though I may not describe the
mysteries themselves, I can say that in this particular year more
people took part in the festivities than usual, to the chagrin of the
Galileans.
The whole business takes nine days. The first day was hot and
enervating. The proclamation was made and the sacred obiects
brought from Eleusis to the Eleusinion, a small temple at the foot
of the acropolis where- among other interesting things- there is
a complete list of Alcibiades' personal property, seized when he
profaned the mysteries one drunken night by imitating on a street
corner the Hierophant's secret rites. The sacred objects are con-
tained in several jars tied with red ribbons. They are put in the

[iso]


Eleusinion, to be returned to Eleusis during the main procession,
which is on the fifth day.
On the second day, we bathed in the sea and washed the pig
each of us had bought for sacrifice. I chose the beach at Phaleron,
and nearly lost the pig I had bought for six drachmae. It is an
amazing sight to watch several thousand people bathing in the sea,
each with a squealing pig.
The third day is one of sacrifice, and a long night.
The fourth day is sacred to Asklepios; one stays at home.
On the fifth day the procession starts from the Dipylon Gate to
Eleusis.
It was a lovely sight. An image of the god Iacchos, son of
Demeter, is borne in a wooden carriage at the procession's head.
This part of the ceremony is sacred to him. Though all are SUl>
posed to walk to Eleusis, most of the well-to-do are carried
in litters. I walked. My bodyguards complained, but I was exalted.
I was crowned with myrtle and I carried not only the sacred
branches tied with wool but also, according to tradition, new
clothes in a bundle on a stick over my shoulder. Macrina accom-
panied me.
The day was cloudy, which made the journey pleasmater than it
usually is at that time of the year. All told, there were perhaps a
thousand of us in the procession, not counting the curious, which
included a number of Galileans who shouted atheist curses at us.
On the outskirts of Athens, just off the main road, Macrina
pointed to a complex of old buildings. "That is the most famous
brothel in Greece," she said with her usual delight in such things.
"The shrine of Aphrodite." Apparently, people come from all
over the world to visit the shrine, where for a price they enjoy
the "priestesses". They pretend it is religion. Actually, it is mass
prostitution. I could not disapprove more.
Just beyond the shrine there is an old bridge. Here the ordeal
begins. On the bridge's parapet sit men with faces covered by
hoods. It is their traditional function to remind important people
of their faults and to condemn their pride. I consoled myself by
remembering that Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius had preceded me
on this bridge. If they had survived humiliation, so could I.
"It won't be bad." Macrina tried to be reassuring. "They're
much too frightened of Constantius." But I recalled how Hadrian
had been jeered for his love of Antinoiis, and Hadrian was a reign-
ing emperor, not mere cousin to one. I was sweating as we reached

[~]


the bridge. All eyes were upon me. The hooded men- at least
thirty of them- had just finished tormenting a local magistrate.
They turned now to me. Macrina held my arm tight. Heart beating
fast and eyes cast down, I walked slowly over the bridge. The jeer-
~ng and curses were formidable. At first I tried not to listen, but
then I recalled that this humiliation is an essential part of the
mysteries: to rid oneself of pride. I listened. I was accused mostly
of falseness and pretension. I was not a true scholar. I was a poseur.
I looked like a goat. I was a coward and afraid to serve in
the army (this was unexpected). I hated the Galileans. This made
me nervous indeed but happily, it was said only once. After all,
my tormentors were of the true religion and not apt to hold my
dislike of the Galileans against me.
Finally, the bridge was crossed. The ordeal ended. Feeling
purged and relieved (the worst is never so bad as one fears), I
walked the rest of the way to Eleusis, with Macrina grumbling at
my side. I'm afraid she taunted me quite as much as the men on
the bridge. But as I drew closer to the mysteries, I was filled
with such a sense of expectancy that nothing could disturb my
mood.
It was night when we arrived at Eleusis. The city is a small one
on the Saronic Gulf, with a view of the island of Salamis. Like
most cities whose principal source of revenue is strangers, Eleusis
is full of inns and cookshops and tradesmen eager to sell copies
of sacred objects at ridiculously high prices. It is a wonder that
any place remains sacred, considering the inevitable presence of
those whose livelihood depends on cheating strangers. I am told
that Delphi is even worse than Eleusis; while Jerusalem- which
is of course "sacred" to the Galileans-is now a most distressing
place to visit.
Torches blazed in every street of the town. Night was like day.
Innkeepers solicited us, and at every street corner, men told of
places to eat. Even vice was proposed, which shows how debased
the local population is, for they should know better than anyone
that during the pilgrims' three days in Eleusis, they must fast,
remain continent, and touch neither the body of one dead nor that
of a woman who has just given birth; eggs and beans are also for-
bidden us, even after the first day's fast.
Macrina and I followed the crowd to where the mysteries are
enacted. Homer has described how the original temple was at the
foot of the acropolis, in much the same spot as the present temple,

[~52]


or Telestrion, as it is called. This night everything was illuminated
in honour of the Great Mysteries.
The entrance to the sacred enclosure is through a gate, even
more noble than the Dipylon at Athens. We entered, passing
through a roped-off section where guards and priests made sure
that we were indeed initiates, remarkable by our dress and certain
signs. The gate is so cunningly arranged that anyone looking
through can see no more than a few yards of the sacred way;
any further view of the Telestrion is broken by the large blank
wall of the Ploutonion, a temple built over the original passage
to Hades from which Persephone appeared.
Eyes smarting from torch smoke, Macrina and I ascended the
sacred way, pausing first at the Kallichoros Well. I was overcome
with awe, for this is the same well described by Homer. It is old
beyond memory. It was here in the time when the gods walked
the earth that the women of Eleusis danced in honour of Demeter.
The opening of the well is several steps below the main terrace,
and faced with magnificent marble. Near it stands a large basin
containing sacred water. I bathed my hands and began to know
Demeter and her grief. I was so moved that I almost neglected to
pay the priestess the one drachma for the experience.
Next we entered the Ploutonion, which is set in a rocky hollow
of the acropolis. The elmwood doors were shut to us~ but the altar
outside, cut in living rock, was illuminated.
Finally we came to the long stoa of Philon, which fronts the
Telestrion. Beyond this blue-paved portico the blank fagade of the
holiest building on earth is set against the acropolis, which pro-
vides its fourth wall. There are greater and more splendid temples
in the world, but there is none which quite inspires one's reverence
in the way the Telestrion does, for it has been holy since almost
the first day of man, a creation of that beautiful lost world when
the gods, not beleaguered, lived among us, and earth was simple
and men good.
Since we were not yet initiates, we could not enter the Teles-
trion. At this point we were joined by two priests who led us to
the house where the Eumolpidae have lived for a thousand years.
We were to spend the night there. The Hierophant, however, did
not join us. On this night of nights, he fasted and meditated.
Macrina and I sat up until dawn. "You must be admitted to the
mysteries." I scolded her, as I had done before.
But she was perverse. "How can I ? I'm not one thing or the


other. I don't like the Christians because they are cruel. I don't
like the mysteries and all the rest because I don't believe anything
can help us when we are dead. Either we continue in some way,
or we stop. But no matter what happens, it is beyond our control
and there is no way of making a bargain with the gods. Consider
the Christians, who believe there is a single god . . .""In three parts!"
"Well, yours is in a thousand bits. Anyway, if by some chance
the Christians are right, then all this" -she gestured towards the
Telestrion- "is wrong, and you will go to their hell rather than to
your Elysium."
"But the Galileans are wrong."
"Who can say?"
"Homer. Thousands of years of the true faith. Are we to be-
lieve there was no god until the appearance of a rabble-rousing
carpenter three hundred years ago ? It is beyond sense to think that
the greatest age of man was godless."
"You must argue with the Twins," said Macrina; then we spoke
of matters which I shall not record.
The next three days were beyond imagination. I was admitted
to all of the mysteries, including the final and most secret. I saw
that which is enacted, that which is shown and that which is
spoken. I saw the passion of Demeter, the descent of Persephone
to the underworld, the giving of grain to man. I saw the world as
it is and the world that is to come. I lost my fear of death in the
Telestrion when, in a blaze of light, I looked upon the sacred
objects. It was true. More than this I cannot write. It is forbidden
to reveal anything that one sees and hears during the two nights
spent in the Telestrion. But I will make one general comment, a
dissent from Aristotle, who wrote: "The initiated do not learn any-
thing so much as feel certain emotions and are put into a certain
frame of mind." First of all, one must question the proposition
that a new emotion is not something learned. I should think that
it was. In any case, I have yet to meet anyone who has been
initiated at Eleusis who did not learn new things not only about
the life we live now but the one to follow. There is such a logic
to what is revealed on those two nights that one is astonished not
to have understood it before-which proves to me the truth of
what is seen, heard and demonstrated. We are part of a never-end-
ing cycle, a luminous spiral of life, lost and regained, of death to
life to . . . but now I begin to tell too much.


?riscus: He tells altogether too much. But that was his charm,
except when he goes on altogether too long and becomes tedious.
I know that you were initiated at Eleusis and doubtless feel much
as he did about what is revealed there. I don't. It is possible that
if I had gone through all the nonsense of initiation, I might have
had a "revelation". But I doubt it. There are some natures too
coarse to apprehend the mysteries. Mine is one. Nowadays of
course we can write with a certain freedom of the mysteries since
they are drawing to an end. The Emperor is expected to
shut down the Telestrion as soon as he feels the time is politically
fight. Naturally, the bishops lust for the destruction of Eleusis,
which to me is the only argument for preserving it.
I am cool to the mysteries because I find them vague and full
of unjustified hope. I do not want to be nothing next year or next
minute or whenever this long life of mine comes to its end (of
course it does not seem at all long to me, not long enough by half! ).
Yet I suspect that "nothing" is my fate. Should it be otherwise,
what can I do about it ? To believe as poor Julian did that he was
among the elect as a result of a nine-day ceremony, costing some
fifteen drachmae, not counting extras, is to fall into the same non-
sense we accuse the Christians of when we blame their bitter
exclusivity and lunatic superstition.
I had no idea Macrina was so sensible until I read Julian's
account of their conversation at Eleusis. She might have made
him a good wife. I had always assumed she only told him what
he wanted to hear, like any other woman. She was rare, in her
way; but not to my taste.
The remainder of Julian's stay in Athens was uneventful. He
was personally popular. The Sophists all tried to curry favour with
him. It is remarkable how men supposedly dedicated to philosophy
and things of the mind are drawn to power; affecting scorn for the
mighty, they are inevitably attracted to those who rule. When the
powerful man is as amiable and philosophy-loving as Julian, the
resulting attempt to capture him is all the more unseemly.

Libanius: How typical of Priscus! He can hardly restrain his
jealousy of me, and his resentment of my influence over Julian.
Yet my interest in Julian was not self-seeking. How could it be ?
When I turned down the title of praetorian prefect, I said that the
title Sophist was good enough for me. My gesture is still much re-
membered not only here in Antioch but everywhere philosophy is

[~sS]


Priscus: He tells altogether too much. But that was his charm,
except when he goes on altogether too long and becomes tedious.
I know that you were initiated at Eleusis and doubtless feel much
as he did about what is revealed there. I don't. It is possible that
if I had gone through all the nonsense of initiation, I might have
had a "revelation". But I doubt it. There are some natures too
coarse to apprehend the mysteries. Mine is one. Nowadays of
course we can write with a certain freedom of the mysteries since
they are drawing to an end. The Emperor is expected to
shut down the Telestrion as soon as he feels the time is politically
right. Naturally, the bishops lust for the destruction of Eleusis,
which to me is the only argument for preserving it.
I am cool to the mysteries because I find them vague and full
of unjustified hope. I do not want to be nothing next year or next
minute or whenever this long life of mine comes to its end (of
course it does not seem at all long to me, not long enough by half !).
Yet I suspect that "nothing" is my fate. Should it be otherwise,
what can I do about it ? To believe as poor Julian did that he was
among the elect as a result of a nine-day ceremony, costing some
fifteen drachmae, not counting extras, is to fall into the same non-
sense we accuse the Christians of when we blame their bitter
exclusivity and lunatic superstition.
I had no idea Macrina was so sensible until I read Julian's
account of their conversation at Eleusis. She might have made
him a good wife. I had always assumed she only told him what
he wanted to hear, like any other woman. She was rare, in her
way; but not to my taste.
The remainder of Julian's stay in Athens was uneventful. He
was personally popular. The Sophists all tried to curry fayour with
him. It is remarkable how men supposedly dedicated to philosophy
and things of the mind are drawn to power; affecting scorn for the
mighty, they are inevitably attracted to those who rule. When the
powerful man is as amiable and philosophy4oving as Julian, the
resulting attempt to capture him is all the more unseemly.

Libanius: How typical of Priscus! He can hardly restrain his
jealousy of me, and his resentment of my influence over Julian.
Yet my interest in Julian was not self-seeking. How could it be ?
When I turned down the title of praetorian prefect, I said that the
title Sophist was good enough for me. My gesture is still much re-
membered not only here in Antioch but everywhere philosophy is

[~ss]


valued. Those of us who wish to lead others to wisdom respond
to any questioning soul, prince or beggar. Sometimes, as in the
case of Maximus, Julian showed bad judgment, but by and large
he cultivated the best minds of our era. I also find Priscus's remarks
about Eleusis distasteful, even atheistic. Cicero, who was hardly
superstitious, wrote that if all else Athens had brought the world
was swept away, the mysteries alone would be enough to place
mankind for ever in Athens' debt. Priscus has got worse with age.
Envy festers. He was never a true philosopher. I find myself pity-
ing him as I read his bitter commentary.

Priscus: In any case, when Julian looked with adoration at that
ear of corn which is revealed with such solemnity at the highest
moment of the ceremony . . .

Libanius: This is absolute blasphemy! These things must not be
revealed. Priscus will suffer for this in the next world, while who
ever betrayed to him our high secret will sink for ever in dung. It
is appalling !

Priscus:... he felt duly elated, believing that as the corn withers,
dies and is reborn, so it is with us. But is the analogy correct ? [
would say no. For one thing, it is not the same ear of corn that
grows from the kernel. It is a new ear of corn, which would sug-
gest that our immortality, such as it is, is between our legs. Our
seed does indeed make a new man but he is not us. The son is
not the father. The father is put in the ground and that is the end
of him. The son is a different man who will one day make yet
another man and so on- perhaps for ever-yet the individual
consciousness stops.

Libanius: I hate Priscus! He is worse than a Christian. Homer be-
lieved. Was Homer wrong ? Of course not.

?riscus: Julian did nothing to offend the Christians in Athens,
though it was fairly well known that he tended towards phil-
osophy. But he was discreet. On at least one occasion he attended
church.
The Hierophant liked him but thought he was doomed, or so he
told me years later. The Hierophant was an interesting man. But
of course you knew him for you were admitted to the mysteries
during his reign. He realized with extraordinary clarity that our

[~56]


old world was ended. There were times, I think, when he took
pleasure in knowing he was the last of a line that extended back
two thousand years. Men are odd. If they cannot be first, they
don't in the least mind being last.

Julian Augustus
Those marvellous days in Athens came to an abrupt end when
an imperial messenger arrived with orders that I attend Con-
stantius at Milan. No reason was given. I assumed that I was to be
executed. Just such a message had been delivered to Gallus. I con-
fess now to a moment of weakness. Walking alone in the agora,
I considered flight. Should I disappear in the back streets of Athens?
Change my name ? Shave my head ? Or should I take to the road
like a New Cynic and walk to Pergamon or Nicomedia and lose
myself among students, hide until I was forgotten, assumed dead,
no longer dangerous ?
Suddenly I opened my arms to Athena. I looked up to her statue
on the acropolis, much to the astonishment of the passers-by (this
took place in front of the Library of Pantainos). I prayed that I be
allowed to remain in Athena's city, preferring death on the spot
to departure. But the goddess did not answer. Sadly I dropped my
arms. Just at that moment, Gregory emerged from the library and
approached me with his wolf's grin.
"You're leaving us," he said. There are no secrets in Athens. I
told him that I was reluctant to go but the Emperor's will must
be done.
"You'll be back," he said, taking my arm familiarly.
"I hope so."
"And you'll be the Caesar then, a man of state, with a diadem
and guards and courtiers! It will be interesting to see just how
our Julian changes when he is set over us like a god.""I shall be the same," I promised, sure of death.
"Remember old friends in your hour of greatness." A scroll
hidden in Gregory's belt dropped to the pavement. Blushing, he
picked it up.
"I have a special permit," he stammered. "I can withdraw books,
certain books, approved books . . ."
I laughed at his embarrassment. He knew that I knew that the
Pantainos Library never allows any book to be taken from the
reading room. I said I would tell no one.

Its7]


The proconsul treated me decently. He was a good man, but
frightened. I recognized at once in his face the look of the official
who does not know if one is about to be executed or raised to
the throne. It must be cruelly perplexing for such men. If they
are kind, they are then vulnerable to a later charge of conspiracy;
if they are harsh, they may live to find their victim great and vin-
dictive. The proconsul steered a middle course; he was correct; he
was conscientious; he arranged for my departure the next morning.
My last evening in Athens is still too painful to describe. I spent
it with Macrina. I vowed to return if I could. Next day, at first
light, I left the city. I did not trust myself to look back at Athena's
temple floating in air, or at the sun-struck violet line of Hymettos.
Eyes to the east and the morning sun, I made the sad journey to
Piraeus and the sea.


IX

Julian Augustus
It was mid-October when I arrived in Milan. The weather was
dry and the air so clear that one could see with perfect clarity
those blue alps which separate civilization from barbarism, our
world of sun from that melancholy green forest where dwells
Rome's nemesis.
Just before the city's gate we were met by one of Constantius's
eunuchs, a gorgeous fellow with many chins and an effortless
sneer. He did not salute me as is proper, a bad omen. He gave
the commander of my guard a letter from the Emperor. When I
saw this, I began to recite the first of the passwords I should need
when I arrived in the kingdom of the dead. But I was not to be
dispatched just yet. Instead I was taken to a house in one of the
suburbs. Here I was imprisoned.
Imprisonment exactly describes my state. I was under heavy
guard. During the day, I was allowed to stroll in the atrium. But
at night I was locked in my bedroom. No one could visit me,
not that there was anyone in Milan I wanted to see or who
wanted to see me, excepting the Empress Eusebia. Of my
household, I was allowed to keep only two boys and two men.
The rest were transferred to the imperial palace. There was
no one I could talk to. That was the greatest hardship of all. I
should have been pleased to have had even a eunuch for
company !
Why was I treated this way? I have since pieced the story
together. While I was in Athens, a general named Silvanus was
proclaimed Augustus in Gaul. I am convinced that at heart he
was innocent of any serious desire to take the purple, but the
enmity of the court eunuchs drove him to rebellion.
As soon as this happened, Constantius arrested me because he
was afraid that I might take advantage of the defection of Gaul
to rise against him in Attica. As it turned out, before I reached
Milan, Silvanus was dead at Cologne. Constantius' luck in civil
war had proved itself again.
But the death of Silvanus did not solve the problem of Julian.
While I was locked up in that suburban villa, the old debate was


reopened. Eusebius wanted me put to death. Eusebia did not. Con-
stantius kept his own counsel.
I prepared several letters to Eusebia, begging her to intercede
with the Emperor that I might be allowed to return to Athens.
But I finally decided not to send her any message, for Constantius's
suspicions were easily aroused, to say the least, and any exchange
between his wife and his heir presumptive would not only be
known to him but would doubtless turn him against both of us. I
did the wise thing.
At dawn, on the thirteenth day of my captivity, my life altered
forever. I was awakened by a slave banging on the bedroom door.
"Get up, Lord! Get up! A message from the Augustus!" Fully
clothed, I leapt out of bed. I then reminded the slave that until
someone unlocked the door I could hardly receive the imperial
messenger.
The door flew open. The commander of my guard was beaming.
I knew then that the divine will had begun its work. I was to be
spared.
"A messenger, sir. The Emperor will receive you tonight."
I stepped into the atrium and got my first taste of what it is
like to be in favour. The house was now full of strangers.
Fat eunuchs in gaudy silk; clerks from various government
offices; tailors; sandalmakers; barbers; youthful officers drawn
to what might be a new sun and source of honour. It was
dizzying.
The messenger from Constantius was no other than Arintheus,
who serves with me now in Persia. He is remarkably beautiful, and
the army loves him in that fervent way armies have of loving hand-
some officers. He is auburn-haired and blue-eyed, with a strong,
supple body. He is completely uneducated, but brave and shrewd
in warfare. His only vice is an excessive fondness for boys, a
practice I usually find unseemly in generals. But the men are
amused by his sensuality. Also, he is a cavalry man and among
cavalry men pederasty is a tradition. I must say that day when
Arintheus approached me, blue eyes flashing and ruddy face grin-
ning, I nearly mistook him for Hermes himself, streaming glory
from Olympus as he came to save his unworthy son. Arintheus
saluted me briskly; then he read aloud the letter summoning me
for audience. When he had finished reading (with some difficulty,
for he has never found reading easy), he put the message away,
gave me his most winning smile and said, "When you are Caesar,

[160]


don't forget me. Take me with you. I prefer action." He patted
his sword hilt. I dithered like a fool. He departed.
Then began a new struggle. My beard would have to go, also
my student's clothes. I was now a prince, not a philosopher. So
for the first time in my life my beard was shaved. It was like losing
an arm. Two barbers worked on me while I sat in a chair in the
centre of the atrium as the mornirig sun shone on a spectacle
which, looking back, was perfectly ludicrous. There was [, an
awkward twenty-three-year-old philosophy student, late of the
University of Athens, being turned into a courtier.
A slave girl trimmed my toenails and scrubbed my feet, to my
embarrassment. Another worked on my hands, exclaiming at the
inkiness of my fingers. The barber who shaved my beard also
tried to shave my chest but I stopped him with an oath. We com-
promised by letting him trim the hair in my nostrils. When he was
finished, he brought me a mirror. I was quite unable to recognize
the youth who stared wide-eyed from the polished metal- and
it was a youth, not a man as I had thought, for the beard had been
deceptive, giving me an undeserved look of wisdom and age. With-
out it, I resembled any other youngster at court.
I was then bathed, oiled, perfumed and elaborately dressed. My
flesh shrank from the lascivious touch of silk, which makes the
body uncomfortably aware of itself. Today I never wear silk, pre-
fenting coarse linen or wool.
I have only a vague memory of the rest of that day. I was carried
to the palace through crowded streets. The people stared at me
curiously, uncertain whether or not it was right to applaud.
I looked straight ahead as I had been instructed to do when on view.
I tried not to hear conversations in the street. Desperately I tried
to recall the eunuch's instructions.
At the edge of the city's main square the palace, grey and for-
bidding behind its Corinthian colonnade, rose before me like fate
itself. Troops were drawn up in full dress on either side of the main
door. When I stepped out of the litter, they saluted.
Several hundreds of the people of Milan drew close to examine
me. In every city there is a special class whose only apparent
function is to gather in public places and look at famous men.
They are neither friendly nor unfriendly, merely interested. An
elephant would have pleased them most, but since there was no
elephant, the mysterious Prince Julian would have to do. Few of
them could identify me. None was certain just what relation I was


to the Emperor. It is amazing how little we are known to our sub-
jects. I know of places on the boundaries of the empire where they
believe Augustus himself still reigns, that he is a great magician
who may not die. Of course, the fact each of us calls himself
Augustus is a deliberate attempt to suggest that the continuity
of power emanating from Rome is the one constant in a world of
flux. Yet even in the cities where there is widespread literacy, the
average citizen is often uncertain about who the ruler is. Several
times already I have been addressed as Constantius by nervous
delegations, while one old man actually thought I was Constantine
and complimented me on how little I had changed since the battle
at the Mulvian bridge !
Inside the palace, curiosity was mingled with excitement and
anticipation. I was in favour. I read my good fortune in every face.
In the vestibule they paid me homage. Heads bobbed; smiles flashed;
my hand was wrung with warmth, kissed with hope. It was dis-
gusting... in retrospect. At the time, it was marvellous proof
that I was to live for a while longer.
I was delivered to the Master of the Offices, who gave me a final
whispered briefing. Then, to the noise of horns, I entered the throne
room.
Constantius wore the purple. The robe fell stiffly to his crimson
shoes. In one hand he held an ivory staff, while the other rested on
the arm of the throne, palm upward, holding the golden orb. As
usual, he stared straight before him, unaware of anything except
what was in his direct line of vision. He looked ill. His eyes were
dark-circled, and his face was somewhat blotchy, as though from
too much wine; yet he was abstemious. On a throne at floor level
sat Eusebia, blazing with jewels. Though she too played statue, she
managed to suggest sympathetic humanity. When she saw me, the
sad mouth parted slightly.
To left and right, in full court dress, were the members of the
Sacred Consistory. All stared at me as I slowly crossed to the
throne, eyes downcast. October light streamed through high
windows. The odour of incense was heavy in the room. I felt a
child again, and this was Constantine. For a moment, the room
swam before my eyes. Then Constantius spoke the first line of the
ritual greeting. I answered, and prostrated myself at his feet. I
kissed the purple, and was raised up. Like two actors we played
our scene impersonally until it was done; then I was given a stool
next to Eusebia.

[~62]


I sat very still, looking straight ahead, aware of Eusebia next to
me. I could smell the flowery scent of her robes. But neither of us
looked at the other.
Ambassadors were received, generals appointed, titles bestowed.
The audience ended when the Emperor stood up. The rest of us
dropped to our knees. Stiff-legged and swaying slightly from the
weight of his robes and jewellery, Constantius marched off to the
palace living quarters, followed by EuseNa. The moment the green
bronze doors shut behind them, as though from a magician's spell,
we were all set free.
Courtiers surrounded me and asked a thousand questions: Would
I be made Caesar ? Where would I live ? Did I need any service ? I
had only to command. I answered as demurely and non-committally
as I could. Then my enemy EuseNus approached, his yellow moon-
face gravely respectful. Silk robes whispered as the heavy body
bowed to me. "Lord, you are to dine with the sacred family." An
excited whisper went through the court. This was the highest
recognition. I was exalted in all eyes. Though my own first reaction
was: dinner means poison.
"I shall escort you to the sacred quarters." Eusebius led me to the
bronze doors through which the imperial couple had just passed.
We did not speak until we were alone in the corridor beyond.
"You should know, Lord, that I have always, in every way,
assured the Augustus of your loyalty to him."
"I know that you have." I lied with equal dignity.
"There are those in the Sacred Consistory who are your
enemies." He gestured for a guard to open a small oaken door. We
passed through. "But I have always opposed them. As you know,
I had hoped all along that you would take your rightful place here
at court. And though there are some who think that the title Caesar
should lapse because your brother . . ." He allowed that sentence
to go unfinished. "I have urged his Eternity to make you Caesar."
"I do not seek such honour," I murmured, looking about me with
some interest. The palace at Milan is a large rambling building.
Originally it was a military governor's rather modest headquarters.
In the last century when Rome ceased to be a practical centre for
the West, the palace was enlarged to become an imperial residence.
Because of the German tribes, the emperors had to be close to the
Alps. Also, the farther an emperor is from the city of Rome the
longer his reign is apt to be, for the populace of that city is notor-
iously fickle and arrogant, with a long memory of the emperors it


has overthrown. None of us stays for long at Rome if he can help it.
Constantine enlarged the palace in Milan, building the state
rooms, while Constantius added the second-floor living quarters
through which we now walked. These rooms look out on a large
inner court. I personally prefer the old-fashioned form of archi-
tecture with small private rooms arranged about an atrium, but
Constantius was a modernist in architecture as well as in religion.
I find such rooms too large, and of course ruinously expensive to
heat.
Guards and eunuchs stood at every door, arrogant yet servile.
A court is the most depressing place on earth. Wherever there is
a throne, one may observe in rich detail every folly and wicked-
ness of which man is capable, enamelled with manners and gilded
with hypocrisy. I keep no court in the field. In residence, I keep as
little as possible.
At the final door, Eusebius left me with a deep bow. Guards
opened the door~ and I stepped into the private dining room. Con-
stantius reclined on one of the two couches within whose right
angle was the table. Opposite him Eusebia sat in an ivory chair. I
bowed low to both of them, intoning the proper formula.
Constantius mumbled his response. Then he waved me to the
couch beside him.
"You look better without that damned beard."
I blushed as I took my place on the couch. Eusebia smiled
encouragingly. "I rather liked the beard," she said."That's because you're an atheist, too."
My heart missed a beat. But it was only the Emperor's heavy wit.
"She likes these high-sounding, low-living Cynics." He indicated
his wife with a knotty ringed hand. "She's always reading them.
Not good for women to read." I said something agreeable, grateful
to find him in a good mood. Constantius had removed his diadem
and outer robes, and he looked almost human, quite unlike the
statue he had appeared earlier.
Wine was brought me and though I seldom drink it full strength,
this day I drank deep, to overcome nervousness.
"Who does he look like ?" Constantius had been examining me
curiously, like a new slave or horse. "Without that beard ?"
Eusebia frowned, pretending to be thoughtful. One gives away
nothing in dealing with a tyrant, even if the tyrant is one's
husband.
The Emperor answered his own question, "Constans. You look

[~64]


just like him. Just like my brother." My heart sank. Constantius
had always been thought to have had a hand in his brother's death.
But there was no significance to this remark, either. Constantius, at
his ease, tended to be literal and rather simple.
I said that I had been too young to recall what my late cousin
had looked like.
"Much the best of the three of us. Tall. Like our father." Con-
stantius was much concerned with his own shortness.
An elaborate dinner was served us, and I tasted everything, for
to refuse any dish would show that one suspected the Emperor of
treachery. It was an ordeal, and my stomach nearly rebelled.
Constantius led the conversation, as emperors are supposed to
do - unless they are given to philosophic debate like me, in which
case I must speak very fast at my own table to be heard.
I was asked about my studies at Athens. I described them, end-
ing "I could spend the rest of my life there." As I said this, I noticed
that Eusebia frowned imperceptibly: a signal that I was not to
speak of student life.
But Constantius had not been listening. He lay now flat on his
back, belching softly and kneading his barrel-like stomach with
one hand. When he spoke, he did so with eyes shut.
"I am the first Augustus to reign alone since my father, who
was himself the first to reign alone in this century. But he never
intended for just one of us to rule. Any more than Diocletian in-
tended for any one of his successors to govern alone." Constantius
raised himself on one elbow and looked at me with those curiously
mournful eyes which were his most attractive yet most puzzling
feature. They were the eyes of a poet who had seen all the tragedy
in this world and knows what is to come in the next. Yet the good
effect of those eyes was entirely undone by a peevish mouth.
Who could ever know Constantius ? I certainly did not. I hated
him, but Eusebia loved him - I think - and she was a woman who
would not have cared for what was evil. Like the rest of us, Con-
stantius was many men in the body of one.
"The world is too big for one person to govern it." My heart beat
faster for I knew now what was to come. "I cannot be everywhere.
Yet the imperial power must be everywhere. Things have a habit
of going wrong all at once. As soon as the German tribes get loose
in the north, the Persians attack in the south. At times I think they
must plan it. If I march to the East, I'm immediately threatened in
the West. If one general rises up against me, then I must deal with


at least two more traitors at the same time. The empire is big.
Distances are great. Our enemies many." He tore off a roast duck's
leg and chewed it, all the time looking at me with those melting
eyes.
"I mean to hold the state together. I shall not sacrifice one city
to the barbarians, one town, one field!" The high-pitched voice
almost cracked. "I mean to hold the state for our family. We won
it. We must maintain it. And that is why we must be loyal to one
another." How that phrase from those cruel lips struck me! I
dared not look at him.
"Julian," the voice was lower now. "I intend to make you
Caesar, and my heir until such time as I have a son."
"Lord . . ." was all I could say. Tears unexpectedly filled my
eyes. I shall never know if I wanted my fate. Yet when it came to
me, a secret line snapped within and the perilous voyage began.
Eusebia congratulated me. I don't recall what was said. More
wine was brought and Constantius, in a jovial mood, told me
how the astrologists preferred 6 November to any other day in
the month. He also insisted that I study military strategy, while
assembling a household suitable to my new rank. I was to have a
salary. It would not be large, he said, understating the matter con-
siderably: if I had not had a small income from my mother's estate,
I would have starved to death that first year. My cousin could
never be accused of generosity.
Constantius almost smiled at me. "Now," he said, "I have a sur-
prise for you." The surprise was his sister Helena. She entered the
room with great dignity. I had never met her, though I had seen
her at a distance during my first visit to Milan.
Helena was not an attractive woman. She was short, inclined to
stoutness, with the short legs and long torso of Constantius. By
one of those unlucky chances, her face was the face of her father
Constantine the Great. It was most alarming: the same broad
cheeks, the thin proud mouth, the large nose, the huge full jaw, an
imperial portrait re-created in a middle-aged woman. Yet despite
this unfortunate resemblance, she was otherwise most feminine
with an agreeable soft voice. (I have always hated women with
shrill voices.) She moved modestly, even shyly. At the time I knew
nothing about her except that she was ten years older than I, and
that she was Constantius's favourite sister.
After formally acknowledging our greetings, Helena took her
place in the vacant chair. She was obviously under considerable

[~66]


strain. So was I, for I knew exactly what was going to happen
next. I had always known that something like this was apt to be
my fate, but I had put it as much as possible out of my mind. Now
the moment was at hand.
"We do you the honour," said Constantius, "of bestowing our
own beloved sister upon you as your wife and consort, a human
and tangible link between our crowns." He had obviously prepared
this sentence in advance. I wondered if he had spoken thus to
Gallus when he gave him Constantia in marriage.
Helena looked at the floor. I am afraid I turned scarlet. Eusebia
watched me, amused but guarded. She who had been my friend
and ally could now quite easily become my enemy. I was aware of
this, even then. Or do I write now with hindsight ? In any case, it
was perfectly plain that should Helena have a child and Eusebia
remain barren, my child would be Constantius's heir. The four of
us were now caught like flies in a spider's web.
I had no clear idea what I said to Constantius. I am sure that
I stammered. Helena later said that I was most eloquent, though
unable to look at her during my speech of acceptance. Doubtless
I was thinking of my conjugal duties. Never did a woman attract
me less. Yet we would have to have a child. This sort of burden is
the usual fate of princes and I daresay it is a small price to pay for
greatness, though at the time it seems larger than it ought.
Helena was a good woman but our moments of intimacy were
rare, unsatisfactory, and somewhat pathetic, for I did want to
please her. But it was never pleasant, making love to a bust of
Constantine. Though I could not make her happy, I did not make
her suffer, and I think we became friends.
The dinner ended when Constantius swung his short bowed legs
to the floor, and stretched tiI1 his bones cracked. Then without a
word to any of us, he left the room. Eusebia gave me a half-smile.
She put her hand out to Helena and together the two women with-
drew, leaving me staring at the pheasant's eggs which an artist-
cook had arranged in a beautifully leathered nest as final course.
It was an extraordinary moment. I had entered the room a
proscribed student. I left it as Caesar and husband. The change was
dizzying.

I believe it is true of most courts that the principal figures seldom
see one another. This is partly due to choice. The fewer the meet-
[~67]


ings, the less chance of something untoward happening. But more
to the point, it suits the courtiers to keep the great people apart,
thereby increasing the importance of intermediaries who are then
able to hurry from one wing of the palace to another, making
mischief and policy as they go.
The court of Constantius was in many ways the worst since
Domitian. The eunuchs were all-powerful. They kept everyone
from the Emperor. If a man displeased a eunuch, he was doomed
and Mercurius, "the count of dreams", would be called in or Paul
"the chain" (the one so called because he was a genius at finding
obscure links to a never-ending chain of treason while the other
specialized in the analysis of seemingly harmless dreams which,
invariably, upon scrutiny, revealed treasonable intent). Since Con-
stantius would listen only to the eunuchs, injustice flourished. No
one was safe, including the great figures themselves, particularly
those like myself who were blood heirs to the principate.
I have often felt when studying history that not enough is made
of the importance of those intermediaries who so often do the
actual governing. We tend to think of courts as wheels at whose
centre is the emperor, from whom, like spokes, all those who serve
him extend, drawing their power directly from his central presence.
The truth is otherwise. Hardly anyone was allowed to come close
to Constantius. Only the eunuch Eusebius saw him daily. As a
result, factions within the court could form and re-form, irrelevant
to the nominal power.
In reading accounts of those weeks at Milan, one would think
that Constantius and I saw each other daily, discussing high policy,
military strategy and sharing, as it were, a family life. Actually, I
saw the Emperor only four times in one month. The first encounter
I have described; the second was at my investiture as Caesar.
I was created Caesar 6 November 355, the year when Arbetio
and LollJanus were consuls. I will say one thing for Constantius.
He had an artist's gift for ceremony. Though I like to think I sur-
pass him in many ways, I know I shall never be able to create the
sense of awful majesty he could whenever he chose. One knew this
was the Augustus when he appeared before a crowd. When I appear,
the people are not in the least impressed. I believe they have a
certain affection for me, but I don't in the least alarm them. They
think I look like a professor of rhetoric. They are quite right. I do.
At the far end of the main square, a high wooden platform had
been decorated with the eagles of Rome and the dragons of our

[x68]


house. The square itself was filled with soldiers in full military
dress.
As I was led by the generals of the army to the platform, I was
conscious that every muscle in my body ached, for I had been
practising daily with sword and javelin. I was exhausted, and I'm
afraid that my instructors had nothing but contempt for me. They
thought me a bookish fool who knew nothing of weaponry and
preferred talk to war. Of course they were courteous to my face,
but behind my back I often heard soft mocking laughter. Incident-
ally, I was surprised to discover how little I can endure mockery.
One of the best consolations of philosophy is that it supposedly
prepares one for the contempt of others. Some philosophers even
revel in the dislike of the vulgar. Not I. Perhaps there is something
to the idea of blood and inheritance. After all, I am descended from
three emperors. To be thought weak and womanish by hearty
young officers was unbearable to me. Grimly, I made up my mind
to surpass them in every way. Unfortunately, at this moment my
primacy was more wish than fact. I had done too much too fast.
As a result, I was even clumsier than usual.
The moment I reached the base of the platform, horns were
sounded. Cheering began, A path opened through the legions, and
Constantius appeared in his gilded state carriage; he wore a dragon-
shaped gold helmet and the purple. As he passed me, I caught his
eye and got a look as blind as Homer's ! In public, the emperor does
not see mere men.
Slowly Constantius climbed the steps to the platform, his short
bowed legs slightly diminishing the majesty of his presence. From
the platform, he received the cheer of the legions. Then he
motioned for me to join him. With a sense of one going to his
own execution, I climbed the steep wooden steps and took my
place at the side of Constantius . . . I almost wrote at the side
of history, for I was now legend. For better or worse, I had become
a part of that long chronicle which began with Julius Caesar and
whose end none can foresee.
I looked out over the massed troops. This was my first look at
an army, and I confess to revelling in the sight. All thought of
philosophy went clear out of my head as the dragon pennants
fluttered in the autumn wind, and the eagles below us dipped as the
salute was given.
Constantius reached out and took my right hand in his. His grip
was firm and callused. I glanced at him out of the corner of my


eye, conscious something was not right: he was half a head taller
than I. I looked down and saw that he was standing on a footstool.
Constantius neglected no detail which might enhance his majesty.
Constantius spoke to the legions. His high-pitched voice carried
well. The Latin he used was that of the army, but it was easy to
understand. He had memorized his speech. "We stand before you,
valiant defenders of our country, to avenge the common cause.
How this is to be done, I put to you not as soldiers but as impartial
judges. After the death of those rebellious tyrants whom mad fury
drove to seize the state, the savages to the north, thinking that this
great empire was weak and in confusion, crossed into Gaul. They
are there now. Only you and we, in perfect accord, can turn them
back. The choice is yours. Here stands before you our cousin Julian,
honoured for his modesty, as dear to us for that as for the ties of
blood; a young man of conspicuous ability whom I desire to make
Caesar if you will confirm him . . ."
At this point, though in mid-sentence, Constantius was stopped
by various voices declaring that it was clearly the will of God, not
of man, that I be raised to the rank of Caesar. I quite agreed, though
the God they had in mind and the One who did indeed raise me
up were not the same. Nevertheless, I admired the skill with which
Constantius had staged the scene. The voices rang out as though
spontaneous (actually, everything had been carefully rehearsed).
Constantius remained very still while they spoke, as though listen-
ing to an oracle. My hand in his grew sweaty; but he never relaxed
the firm grip. When there was silence again, he nodded gravely
to the legions. "Your response is enough. I see that I have your
approval."
He let go my hand. He motioned for two generals to join us on
the platform. One carried a wreath; the other a purple robe. They
stood behind us.
"This young man's quiet strength and temperate behaviour" (he
emphasized the word "temperate" to reassure them that I was not
Gallus) "should be imitated rather than proclaimed; his excellent
disposition, trained in all good arts, I concur in by the very fact
that I have chosen to elevate him. So now with the immediate
fayour of the God of heaven, I invest him with this imperial robe."
The cloak was put about my shoulders. Constanf~us arranged it
at the neck. Only once did he look me in the eye as we faced one
another, he on his footstool and I with my back to the legions.
The look he gave me was curiously furtive and undecided, in

[~7o]



sharp contrast to the easy majesty of his movements and the serene
power of his voice.
Constantius was a man in terror of his life. I saw it plain in those
great eyes. As he put the wreath on my head, he shut his eyes for
an instant, like a man who flinches in anticipation of a surgeon's
knife. Then he took my right hand again and turned me around
that I might face the legions. But before they could salute me, he
raised his arm. He had more to say. Though he spoke as though to
me, he looked straight at them. Not certain which way to turn, I
looked half at him and half towards the soldiers in the square.
"Brother, dearest to me of all men, you have received in your
prime the glorious flower of your origin. Yet I must admit you add
to my own glory, for I seem to myself more truly great in bestow-
ing almost equal power" (the "almost" was heavily rendered) "on
a noble prince who is my kinsman than through that power itself.
Come, then, to share in pain and perils, undertake the defence of
Gaul, relieve its afflicted regions with every bounty. And should it
be necessary to engage with the enemy, take your place with the
standard-bearers. Go forth yourself, a brave man ready to lead
men equally brave. You and I will stand by one another with firm
and steadfast affection, and together- if God grants our prayers-
we shall rule over a pacified world with moderation and con-
scientiousness. You will be present with me always in my thoughts,
and I will not fail you in anything you undertake. Now go, with
haste, with the prayers of all of us, to defend with your honour
the post assigned you by Rome herself, and God's appointment!
Hail, Caesar!"
This last he said in a loud voice which was immediately echoed
by the legions. It was like a burst of thunder. I had sufftcient
presence of mind to respond: "Hail, Augustus !" The men repeated
this, too. I saluted Constantius. Then I turned and saluted the
legions. This was against all protocol. Generals do not salute their
men. The standards, yes; the legions, no. But my gesture was
sincerely tactless. After the first astonishment, the legions roared
their approval of me and struck their shields hard against their
arrnoured knees: the highest tribute they may render a man. It is
also the loudest. I thought I would be deaf forever as the clatter
rang through the square. More terrible, however, is the army's dis-
approval, when they roll their spears back and forth against their
shields, as prelude to mutiny.
I could feel Constanfius stiffen beside me. This was more than

[171]


he anticipated. I am sure that he was positive that my gesture to
the legions had been premeditated. But the deed was done. And I
was Caesar.
Abruptly, Constantius left the platform. I followed him. There
was a moment of confusion as he got into his carriage. He looked
down at me for a long moment. Then he motioned for me to join
him. I clambered in beside him and, side by side, we rode through
the cheering legions. I felt a sudden affection for them all. We
had been united as though in marriage, and like so many arranged
marriages, odd though this one was, it proved to be happy.
The carriage moved slowly through the square to the palace.
Constantius said nothing to me, and I dared not speak to him, un-
happily aware that in this carriage there was no footstool and I
was taller than he, a second bad omen. I murmured to myself a
line from the Iliad: "By purple death I'm seized~ and fate supreme."
Inside the palace courtyard Constantius and I parted without a
word. I did not see him again for several days.

My first act as Caesar was to send for Oribasius, who was at
Athens. He had arrived there only a week after my recall. I also
wrote Maximus and Priscus, inviting them to join me. Meanwhile,
I continued military practice. I also learned as much as possible
about the administration of Gaul.
During this time I saw none of the imperial family, including
my soon-to-be wife. Yet the day of the wedding had been set and
the inevitable documents were brought to me to be studied. I was
given a meticulous ground plan of the chapel and my position
from moment to moment during the ceremony was precisely
traced.
I had but one friend at court, Eutherius, the Armenian eunuch
who had taught me at Constantinople. Every evening we would
study various documents and memoranda. It was his task, he said,
to make an administrator of me.
The night before my wedding, Eutherius came to me with the
news that I was to leave for Gaul the first week in December.
'To what city ?"
"Vienne. You'll be there for the winter. Then in the spring you
will take the field." He looked at me closely. "Does it seem strange
to you to be a general ?"
"Strange !" I exploded. "Insane !"


He raised his hand in some alarm, indicating the shadows where
guards stood and informers listened, always hopeful of catching
me at treason.
I lowered my voice. "Of course it is strange. I've never seen a
battle. I've never commanded a single soldier, much less an army.
But . . .""But ?"
"But l'm not afraid." I did not say what I really felt: that I looked
forward to military adventures.
"I am relieved." Eutherius smiled. "Because I have just been
appointed grand chamberlain at the court of the Caesar Julian. I go
with you to Gaul."
This was marvellous news. I embraced him warmly, babbling
happily until he was forced to say, "Roman gravity, Caesar. Please.
You are far too Asiatic."
I laughed. "It can't be helped, I am Asiatic . . ."
Suddenly, Eutherius was on his feet. With a speed which I would
not have thought possible for one of his age, he darted into the
shadowed archway just opposite us. A moment later he reappeared
with a dark, richly dressed man.
"Caesar," said Eutherius with grim ceremony, "allow me to
present Paul, of the. secret service. He has come to pay your great-
ness homage."
I was hardly startled. I had been under surveillance all my life.
The presence of the government's chief secret agent merely
reminded me that the higher I rose the more important it was for
Constantius to have me watched.
"We are always pleased to receive the Emperor's agents," I said
politely.
Paul was imperturbable. His eyes shone in the lamplight; his
hook nose made him resemble some great bird of prey. He bowed.
He spoke with a slight Spanish accent. "I was on my way to the
east wing. To report to Rufinus, the praetorian prefect."
"This is not the usual way to the east wing," said Eutherius
amiably.
"What can I say ?" Paul spread his hands, bird's talons ready to
seize.
"You can say good night, Paul, and report to the praetorian
prefect that you heard nothing useful," I said.
Paul bowed. "I report only what I hear, Caesar." He was care-
fully insolent.


"Stay longer," I said, "and you v~ill hear the beginning of your
death."
That shook him, though my boldness was perfect bluff. I had no
power. One word from him and I could be brought down. Yet I
knew that if I was to be Caesar I would have to assert myself or
earn the fatal contempt of eunuchs and spies. Paul withdrew.
I turned to Eutherius. "Was I too Asiatic ?" I teased him, though
my heart pounded.
He shook his head. "Perhaps that is the wisest way to handle
him. Anyway, you are safe for the moment."
"But he is constructing one of his chains."
"Perhaps he will trap himself."
I nodded. Paul had been a prime mover in the plot which had
destroyed my brother. That night in the palace at Milan I began
my own plot.

My wedding day . . . what a strange thing for a celibate to
write ! It seems impossible now that I could ever have been a hus-
band. Yet I became one on ~g November 35~. I shall not describe
the atrocious Galilean rites. It is enough to say that I endured them,
heavy with purple and glittering with state jewels which I later
sold in Gaul to buy soldiers.
After the ceremony, there were the usual celebrations and games
in our honour. Helena delighted in all the panoply of rank; in this
she resembled her brother. I was merely dutiful and did what was
expected of me. A few days after the ceremony I was summoned
to an audience with Eusebia.
"What do you think of the world now.~" Eusebia's eyes gleamed
with mischief.
"I owe it all to you," I said warmly.
"And how do you find Helena ?"
"She is my wife," I said formally; again the conspiratorial
look.
"She is very . . . handsome," said Eusebia, with an edge of
malice.
"Noble, I should say." I almost burst out laughing. But there is
a rule to these games.
"You will leave soon."
"I'm glad," I said. Then added, "Not that I look forward to
leaving . . ." I could not say "you" so I said "Milan".

[~74]



She shook her head. "This is not your sort of place. It's not
mine either, but . . ." She left what was serious unsaid. Then:
"You will go into winter quarters at Vienne. Money . . ."
"Will be scarce." The Grand Chamberlain had already told me
that I would have to maintain myself and household on my salary
as Caesar. Additional funds could not be granted at this time.
"Luckily, you are frugal."
"Helena is not."
"Helena has her own money," said Eusebia sharpl7. "She should
use it. She owns half of Rome."
I was relieved to hear this, and said so.
"It is my hope," said Eusebia, "that you will soon have a son,
not only for yourself but for us."
I admired her boldness. This was the one thing Eusebia did not
want me to have, since it would endanger her own position. R~ther
than accept my son as his heir, Constantius was capable of divorc-
ing Eusebia and taking a new wife who could give him what he
most desired.
"It is my hope," I answered evenly, "that you will be blessed
with many children."
But she did not believe me either. The interview now turned
painful. No matter what either of us said, it sounded false. Yet I
believe she did indeed wish me well, except in that one matter.
Finally, we got off the subiect and she revealed to me the state
of Constantius's mind. "I speak to you candidly." An admission
that neither of us had been speaking candidly before. The sad face
looked sadder still, while her long hands nervously fingered the
folds of her robe. "He is divided. He cannot make up his mind
about you. Naturally, there are those who tell him that you wish
to overthrow him."
'~Not true!" I began to protest, but she stopped me.
"I know it is not true."
"And it never will be true !" I believed myself.
"Be tolerant. Constantius has had to face many enemies. It is
only natural that he fear you."
'~hen why won't he let me go back to Athens, where I am no
danger ?"
"Because he needs you more than he fears you." She looked at
me, suddenly frightened. "Julian, we are in danger of losing all
Gaul."
I stared at her dumbly.

[~7S]


"This morning Constantius had a message from the praetorian
prefect at Vienne. I don't know what it said. But I suspect the
worst. We have already lost the cities of the Rhine. Should the
Germans attack this winter, it is the end of Gaul, unless..." She
held her hand above the flame of the alabaster lamp. The flesh
glowed. "Julian, help me !" For a stupid moment I thought she had
burned her hand. "You must be loyal to us. You must help us!"
"I swear by all the gods, by Helios, by . . ."
She stopped me, unaware that in my sincerity I had sworn by
the true gods. "Be patient with him. He will always be suspicious
of you. That is his nature. But as long as I live, you are safe. If
something should happen to me . . ." This was the first inkling I
had that Eusebia was ill. "Be loyal to him anyway."
I forget what I said. Doubtless more protestations of loyalty, all
sincere. When I rose to go, she said, "I have a gift for you. You
will see it on the day you leave."
I thanked her and left. Despite all that Eusebia did to hurt me
in the next two years, I still love her. After all I owe her not only
the principate but my life.

At dawn on the first of December I left Milan for Gaul. I said
farewell to Helena, who was to join me later at Vienne. We
both behaved according to the special protocol the eunuchs have
devised governing a Caesar's farewell to his new wife as he goes
to a beleaguered province. Then, accompanied by the newly
arrived Oribasius, I went down to the courtyard of the palace to
place myself at the head of my army.
Outside in the frosty air, some three hundred foot soldiers and a
score of cavalry were drawn up. I took this to be my personal
bodyguard. I was about to ask the whereabouts of the army of
Gaul when I was joined by Eutherius. He was frowning. "I've just
spoken to the Grand Chamberlain. There has been a last-minute
change in plans. Your legions have been assigned to the Danube."
I indicated the men in the courtyard. "Is this my army ?"
"I am afraid so, Caesar."
I have never in my life been so angry. Only the arrival of Con-
stantius prevented me from saying the unsayable. I saluted the
Emperor; gravely, he returned the salute. Then he mounted a black
horse and I mounted a white one. His personal guard (twice the
size of my "army") fell into place behind him. My troops and

[x76]


household brought up the rear. Thus the Augustus and his Caesar
launched the power of Rome against the barbarians. It was
ludicrous.
The few citizens who were up and around at this hour cheered
us dutifully. We made a particularly fine impression at the
vegetable market which is just inside the city gate. The farm
women waved their carrots and turnips at us, and thought us a
brave sight.
Neither Constantius nor I spoke until we were out on the main
road, the high Alps visible to us across the Lombard Plain. He had
agreed to escort me as far as the two columns which stand on
either side of the road midway between Lumello and Pavia. He had
obviously decided this would give us sufficient time for a good
talk. It did.
Constantius began with, "We have great confidence in Floren-
tius, our praetorian prefect at Gaul." This was an announcement;
there was no invitation for me to comment.
Of course he has confidence in Florentius, I thought savagely,
otherwise he would have had him murdered by now. But I said,
"Yes, Augustus." And waited. We rode a few more yards. Occa-
sionally, our armoured legs touched, metal striking metal, and
each would shrink instinctively from the other. The touch of
another man has always disturbed me; the touch of my father's
murderer alarmed me.
We passed a number of carts containing poultry; they had
pulled off the road at our approach. When the peasants saw the
Emperor, they fell fiat on their bellies, as though blinded by the
sight of that sacred figure. Constantius ignored them.
"We are fond of our sister Helena." This was also launched
upon the dry cool air in an oracular tone.
"She is dear to me, too, Augustus," I replied. I was afraid he was
going to lecture me on my marital duties, but he made no further
mention of Helena.
Constantius was constructing a case. His occasional fiat
sentences, suitable for carving in marble, were all part of an
edifice created to contain me. I was to obey the praetorian pre-
fect of Gaul, even though as Caesar I was his superior. I was to re-
member that Helena's first loyalty was to her brother and ruler,
not to her husbafid. So far, I understood him clearly.
"We have heard from your military instructor that you show
promise."

~77]


"I shall not fail you, Augustus. But it was my understanding that
I was to go to Gaul with an army, not an escort."
Constantius ignored this. "You have come to soldiering late. I
hope you are able to learn what you will need to know."
This was not optimistic, but not unnatural. There was no reason
for anyone to suspect that a philosophy student should show any
talent for war. Curiously enough, I had every confidence in myself
because I knew that the gods would not desert me now they had
raised me up. But my cousin had no way of knowing my feelings,
or judging my capacity. He merely saw a young untried soldier
about to go into battle against the fiercest fighters in the world.
"At all times remember that we are divine in the eyes of the
people and sacred to heaven."
I took the "we" to mean Constantius and myself, though he
may have been merely reminding me of his own rank. "I shall re-
member, Augustus." I always called him by his proper title, though
he much preferred Lord, a title I despise and do not use for it
means that one is the master of other men, rather than simply first
among them.
"Control your generals." Though he still sounded as if he were
repeating maxims, I could tell that now he was on the verge of
actual advice~ if not conversation. "No officer should be admitted
to senatorial rank. All officers must be under strict civilian control.
Any governor of any province outranks any general sent to him.
No officer must be allowed to take part in civil affairs. Our
praetorian prefects are set over all military and civil officials. That
is why the administration of the empire runs as smoothly as it

Needless to say, I did not remark that the collapse of Gaul was
hardly a sign of smooth administration. But in principle Con-
stantius's advice was good and I tend still to follow it. There is no
denying that he had a gift for administration.
"In matters of taxes, take whatever is owing us. Show no mercy
to the cities and villages which are delinquent in meeting pay-
ments. It is their nature to complain. Assume that your tax-
gatherers are honest unless proved otherwise. They are never
honest, but no one has yet found a way to correct their abuses.
As long as they return to you the larger part of what they collect,
be satisfied."
I was later to revise the system of taxation in Gaul, disproving
everything he said. But all that in its proper place.

[~78]


"Control the generals." He repeated this suddenly as if he'd
forgotten he had already said it to me. Then he turned and looked
at me for the first time that day. It was startling. No longer was
he the sun god on his charger. This was my cousin, my enemy,
my lord, source of my greatness and potential source of my death.
"You must know what I mean," he said, sounding like a man, not
an oracle. "You have seen the state disrupted. Our high place
threatened. Provinces wrecked. Cities destroyed. Armies wasted.
The barbarians seizing our lands, because we were too busy fight-
ing one another to protect ourselves from the true enemy. Well,
Caesar, remember this: allow no general sufficient power to raise
an army against you. You have seen what I have had to suffer.
Usurper after usurper has wasted our power. Be on your guard."
"I will, Augustus."
Then he said, very slowly, his eyes on mine, "As I am on my
guard." He looked away when he saw that his meaning was quite
clear. Then he added for good measure, "We have never yet lost
so much as a foot of earth to any usurper, nor will we ever."
"As long as I live, Augustus, you shall have at least one arm to
fight for you."
We rode until midday. Then at the two columns we stopped.
It was a fine brisk noon and, des~~te the chill in the air, the sun
was hot and we were all sweating under our armour. A halt was
ordered.
Constantius and I dismounted and he motioned for me to
accompany him into a hard stubbled field. Except for our troops,
no one was in sight. In every country peasants vanish when they
see armed men coming: all soldiers are the enemy. I wish one
could change that.
Constantius walked ahead of me towards a small ruined shrine
to Hermes which stood at the edge of the field (a favourable
omen, Hermes has always watched over me). Behind us, our men
watered horses, rearranged armour, swore and chattered, pleased
by the good weather. Just as Constantius entered the shrine, I
broke a dead flower off its stalk. Then I followed him inside the
shrine, which smelled of human excrement. Constantius was
urinating on the floor. Even in this, he was grave and majestic.
"It is a pity," I heard myself saying, aware as I spoke that I was
breaking protocol, "what has happened to these old temples."
"A pity? They should all be torn down." He rearranged his
clothes. "I hate the sight of them."

[~79]


"Of course," I muttered.
"I shall leave you here," he said. We stood facing one another.
Though I deliberately stooped, I could not help but look down on
him. He edged away from me, instinctively searching for higher
ground.
"Whatever you need, you shall have. Call on me. Also, depend
on our praetorian prefect. He represents us. You will find the
legions of Vienne alert, ready for a spring campaign. So prepare
yourself."
He handed me a thick document. "Instructions. To be read at
your leisure." He paused. Then he remembered something. "The
Empress has made you a gift. It is with your baggage. A library,
I believe."
I was effusive in my gratitude. I said words but Constantius
did not listen. He moved to the door. He paused; he turned; he
tried to speak to me. I blushed. I wanted to reach out and take his
hand and tell him not to fear me, but I did not dare. Neither of us
was ever able to face the other.
When Constantius finally spoke, his voice broke with tension.
"If this should come to you..." Awkwardly he gestured at him-
self to indicate the principate of the world. "Remember . . ."
Then his voice stopped as if a strangler's thumb had blocked the
windpipe. He could not go on. Words had failed him again, and
me.
I have often wondered what it was he meant to say; what it was
I should remember. That life is short? Dominion bitter? No.
Constantius was not a profound man. I doubt if he had been about
to offer me any startling insight. But as I think back on that scene
in the ruined shrine (and I think of it often, I even dream of it),
I suspect that all he meant to say was, "Remember me." If that is
what you meant, cousin, then I have, in every sense, remembered
you.
Constantius left the shrine. As soon as his back was to me, I
placed the withered flower on the profaned floor and whispered a
quick prayer to Hermes. Then I followed the Emperor across the
field to the road.
Once mounted, we exchanged formal farewells, and Constantius
rode back to Milan, the dragon banner streaming in the cool wind
before him. We never saw one another again.

[~8o]



CAESAR


At Turin, as I received city officials in the law court, a messenger
a~rived from Florentius, the praetorian prefect of Gaul. The
prefect thought that the Caesar should know that some weeks ago
Cologne had fallen to the Germans, and the Rhine was theirs. The
military situation was, Florentius wrote with what almost seemed
satisfaction, grave. The German King Chnodomar had sworn to
drive every Roman from Gaul within the year. This was the bad
news Constantius had not told me.
While the reception continued, Oribasius and I withdrew to the
prefect's office to study the report. For some inexplicable reason
the only bust to adorn the room was that of the Emperor Vitellius,
a fat porker who reigned several months in the year of Nero's
death. Why Vitellius? Was the official a descendant? Did he
admire the fat neck, the huge jowls of the man who was known
as the greatest glutton of his day ? To such irrelevances does the
mind tend to fly in moments of panic. And I was panicky.
"Constantius sent me here to die. That's why I was given no
army."
"But surely he doesn't want to lose Gaul."
"What does he care for Gaul ? As long as he can have his court,
his eunuchs, his bishops, what more does he need ?" This was not
accurate; in his way, Constantius. was a patriot. But in my bitter-
ness there was no stopping me. I denounced Constantius recklessly
and furiously. I committed treason with every breath. When I had
finished, Oribasius said, "The Emperor must have a plan. It can't
be that simple. What are those instructions he gave you ?"
I had forgotten all about the packet I had been given on the road
to Turin. It was still in my wallet. Eagerly, I undid the fastenings.
I read quickly, with growing astonishment. "Etiquette!" I shouted
finally, throwing the document across the room. "How to receive
an ambassador. How to give a dinner party. There are even
recipes!" Oribasius burst out laughing, but I was too far gone to
find any humour in the situation."We'll escape!" I said at last.
"Escape ?" Oribasius looked at me as if I had gone mad.
"Yes, escape." Curious . . . I never thought I would be able to

[~82]


write any of this. "We can desert together, you and I. It will be
easy. Nothing but a piece of cloth to throw away." I tugged at the
purple that I wore. "Then we let our beards grow, and back to
Athens. Philosoph7 for me, medicine for you.""No." He said it flatly.
"Why not ? Constantius will be glad to see the end of me."
"But he won't know it's the end of you. He'll think you have
gone to plot against him, raise an army, become usurper.""But he won't find me."
0ribasius laughed. "How can you hide in Athens ? Even with a
new beard and student's clothes, you are the same Julian everyone
met a few months ago with Prohaeresius."
'q~hen it won't be Athens. I'll find a city where I'm not known.
Antioch. I can hide in Antioch. I'll study with Libanius."
"And do you think Libanius could hold his tongue ? His vanity
would betray you in a day."

Libanius: I shall say here that I never found Oribasius particularly
sympathetic. Apparently, he felt the same about me. He is of
course very famous nowadays (if he is still alive); but medical
friends tell me that his seventy-volume encyclopedia of medicine
is nothing but a vast plagiarism from Galen. After Julian's death,
he was exiled and went to the court of Persia, where I am told he
is worshipped by the Persians as a god; he must have enjoyed this,
for he was always vain. Also avaricious: he once charged me f~ve
gold soIidi for a single treatment for gout. I could not walk for a
month after.

Julian Augustus
"Then I shall find a city where no one has ever seen me or heard
of me."
"Farthest Thule. Wherever you go, officials will know who you
are."
"Complete disguise ? A new name ?"
"You forget the secret agents. Besides, how will you live .~"
"I can teach, become a tutor . . ."
"A slave."
"If necessary, why not ? In a proper household, a slave can be
happy. I could teach the young men. I would have time to write,
to lecture . . ."
"From the purple to a slave ?" He said it with slow cold wonder.
o                                                      [~83]


"What do you think I am now ?" I exploded. I raged. I lamented.
When I finally stopped for lack of breath, Oribasius said, "You
will continue into Gaul, Caesar. You will put down the German
tribes, or die in the attempt.""~o."
"Then be a slave, Julian." It was the first time he had called me
by my name since I had been raised to Caesar. Then he left me
alone in the office, where I sat like a fool, mouth aiar, the hog-like
face of Vitellius peering at me from above the doorway . . . even
after three centuries in stone, he looked hungry.
I folded the letter into many squares, each smaller than the
other. I thought hard. I prayed to Hermes. I went to the latticed
windows and loked for the sun, my peculiar deity. I searched for a
sign. At last it came. From the setting sun, light suddenly shone in
my face. Yes, out of the west where Gaul was, Helios blazed dark-
gold in my eyes. I was to follow my god, and if death was what
he required of me, then that would be my offering. If victory, then
that would be our glory. Also, it was perfectly plain that I could
not escape even if I wanted to. I had indeed been seized by purple
death.
I returned to the citizens of Turin as though nothing had
happened. As I received their homage, Oribasius looked at me
questioningly. I winked. He was relieved.
The next morning we continued our journey. The weather in
the mountains was not yet cold, nor was there any snow except on
the highest slopes. Even the soldiers, a remarkably complaining lot
of Galileans, admitted that God must be with us. He should have
been: they prayed incessantly. It was all they were good for.

When we crossed into Gaul, an interesting thing happened. All
up and down our route my coming had been excitedly reported,
for I was the first legitimate Caesar to be seen in Gaul in many
years. I say "legitimate" because Gaul, traditionally, is the place
for usurpers. There had been three in a decade. Each had worn the
purple. Each had minted coinage. Each had accepted the oath of
fealty. Each had been struck down by Constantius or fate. Now a
true Caesar was at last in Gaul, and the people took heart.
Early one evening we entered our first Gallic village, set high in
the mountains. The villagers were gathered along the main street
to cheer me. As decoration, they had tied many wreaths of fir and

[~8,~]


pine between the houses on either side of the road. As Hemes is
my witness, one of the wreaths broke loose and fell upon my head,
where it fitted as close as a crown. I came to a dead halt, not certain
what had happened. My first reaction was that I had been struck
by a branch. Then I raised my hand and felt the wreath.
The villagers were wide-eyed. Even my slovenl7 troops were
impressed. Eutherius who was beside me murmured, "Even the
gods mean for you to be crowned."
I did not answer him, nor did I remove the wreath. Pretending
that nothing had happened, I continued through the village while
the inhabitants cheered me with a new intensity.
Oribasius said, "By tomorrow everyone in Gaul will know of
this."
I nodded. "And by the next day Constantius will know." But
even this thought could not depress me. I was now in a fine mood,
reflecting the brilliant winter day, not to mention the love the gods
had shown me.
My passage through the Gallic towns was triumphal. The
weather held until we arrived at the gates of Vienne. Then black
clouds rolled out of the north and a sharp wind blew. One could
smell snow upon the air. Bundled in cloaks, we crossed the winter-
black Rhone and entered the city at about the third hour. Cold as
it was, the streets were crowded and once again there was the re-
markable response. I could not understand it. Constantius inspired
awe and fear, but I seemed only to evoke love . . . I do not
mention this out of vanity but only as a puzzling fact. For all these
people knew, I might be another Gallus. Yet there they were,
cheering me as though I had won some important battle or in-
creased the supply of grain. It was inexplicable but exhilarating.
Just as I came opposite the temple of Augustus and Livia, an old
blind woman was thrust forward by the crowd. She fell against
my horse. Guards pushed her back; she fell again. "Help her," I
ordered.
They got her to her feet. In a loud voice she asked, "Who
is this?" Someone shouted, "It is the Caesar Julian!" Then she
raised her blind eyes to heaven and in the voice of a Pythoness
proclaimed, "He will restore the temples of the gods!" Startled,
I spurred my horse through the crowd, her words still ringing in
my ears.
I met Florentius in the main hall of the palace, which was to be
my residence, though "palace" was hardly the word for this not


very large villa. Florentius received me courteously. Yes, he re-
ceived me, rather than the other way around, and he made it per-
fectly clear from the beginning that this was his province, not
mine, even though I was Caesar and he merely praetorian prefect.
"Welcome to Gaul, Caesar," he said. as we saluted one another.
He had not thought it worth while to call in the city's magistrates
or, for that matter, any officials. Several military men attended
him, and that was all. Oribasius was my only attendant.
"A warm welcome for a cold season, Prefect," I said. "The
people at least seem pleased that I have come." I stressed the "at
least".
"All of us are pleased that Augustus has seen fit to elevate you
and to send you to us as a sign of his interest in the matter of Gaul."
Florentius was a small swarthy man with sharp features. I particu-
larly recall his sinewy forearms, which were black with hairs,
more like a monkey's than a man's.
"Augustus will indeed be pleased to learn that you approve his
actions," I said dryly. Then I walked past him to where the room's
single chair was placed on a small dais. I sat down. I could see this
had some effect. The military men exchanged glances. Florentius,
however, was imperturbable, even though I was sitting in his chair.
"Present the officers, Prefect." I was as cool as my disposition
ever allows me to be.
Florentius did so. The first officer was Marcellus, chief of staff
of the army of Gaul. He saluted me perfunctorily. The next officer
was Nevitta, a powerfully built Frank, blue-eyed, loud-voiced, a
remarkable commander who serves with me now in Persia. But
that day in Vienne, he treated me with such obvious disdain that
I realized I would have to respond in kind, or lose all pretence of
authority. Either I was Caesar or I was lost.
I turned to Florentius. I spoke carefully. "We are not so
far from Milan that the respect due to the Caesar can be omitted.
Field conditions do not prevail in a provincial capital, despite the
reverses of our armies on the Rhine. Instruct your officers, Prefect,
in their duty to us. Show them by your example what we are."
Constantius could not have done it better, and in truth I meant
every word of this arrogant speech. I was convinced that I had
come to Gaul to die, and I meant to die in the most honourable
way possible, upholding to the end the great title that was mine.
Florentius looked astonished. The officers looked frightened.
Oribasius was impressed . . . curious how much we enjoy those


rare moments when we can by some public act impress an old
friend.
In his confusion, Florentius took too long to react. So in careful
imitation of Constantius, I raised my right arm and pointed with
forefinger to the floor in front of me, and in a hard voice said, "We
wear the purple."
The military men with a clatter of armour dropped to
their knees. Florentius, with a look of singular venom, followed
suit. He kissed the robe. With that gesture, hostilities between us
began. They were to continue for five years.

Constantius never meant me to take actual command of the
province. I was to be a ceremonial figure, reminding the Gauls by
my presence that Constantius had committed, if not a full army, at
least his flesh and blood to the task of rallying a frightened people
to the defence of the province. Florentius wielded all actual power.
He was in direct charge of the army at Vienne and his personal
courier service held together the various legions scattered about
Gaul. Most of them, incidentally, were trapped in fortresses, for
the Germans had laid siege to every sizeable town and military
installation from the Rhine to the North Sea.
Only last year, in going through Constantius's secret archives-
a fascinating if at times depressing experience, rather like hearing
what people say behind one's back - I came across his instructions
to Florentius. Now that I have read them I am more tolerant of
the prefect; he was merely carrying out orders. Constantius wrote
- I am paraphrasing, for the documents are all at Constantinople -
that this "dearly beloved kinsman the Caesar Julian" was to be
looked upon as a cadet in the art of war and as a novice in the busi-
ness of government. Florentius was to be that pupil's dedicated
tutor, to instruct, edify and guard him against evil companions
and wrong iudgments. In other words, I was to be put to school.
Military matters were to be kept from me. I was to be watched for
signs of arnbitio, as the Romans say, a word no other language has
devised, meaning that sort of worldly ambition which is injurious
to the balance of the state.
My first year in Gaul did teach me a good deal, not only in the
art of war but also in the arts of concealment and patience. I be-
came a second Ulysses, hiding my time. I was not allowed to attend
the military council. But from time to time I was briefed on the

[t87]


general military situation. I was not encouraged by what I was
told. Though the army of Gaul was considerable, Florentius had
no intention of committing it in battle.
We did nothing. Fortunately our enemy Chnodomar did nothing
either; his promised offensive never materialized. He declared
himself quite pleased to control the Rhine and our largest cities. I
was eager to engage him, but I did not command a single soldier,
excepting my doughty Italian bodyguard. I was also in need of
money. My salary as Caesar was supposed to be paid by the
quarter, but the Count of the Sacred Largesse was always late in
making payments. I lived entirely on credit my first year in Gaul,
and credit was not easily come by when there were daily rumours
that I was in disfavour and might be recalled at any moment. I was
also irritated to discover that the villa where I lived was not the
palace of the Caesar but a sort of guest-house where official visitors
were housed. The city palace was on the Rhone; and here Floren-
tius and his considerable court were richly housed. He lived like
the Caesar, I lived like a poor relation. But there were compensa-
tions. I had Oribasius with me, as well as Priscus, who arrived in
March from Athens.

?riscus: I should add a bit to Julian's account of his relations with
Florentius. The praetorian prefect was avaricious but capable.
More to the point, he was following the Emperor's instructions to
the letter. I always thought Julian was unduly bitter about him.
Of course, on several public occasions the prefect humiliated him.
I remember one military review when there was no place for Julian
on the dais. So the Caesar was forced to watch "his" troops from
the crowd, surrounded by old women selling sausages. That was
probably Florentius's revenge for Julian's behaviour at their first
meeting.
To Constantius's credit . . . why is one always trying to find
good things to say about the bad ? Is it our uneasy knowledge that
their version of us would be precisely the same as ours of them,
from another viewpoint and a conflicting interest ? In any case,
Constantius was perfectly correct in not allowing a youth with no
military or administrative experience to take over the direction of
a difficult war which older and supposedly wiser soldiers had
nearly lost. No one could have known then that Julian was a
military genius, except possibly himself. I almost find myself be-
lieving in that Helios of his when I contemplate his Gallic victories.

[~88]



But at this time he lived much as a student in the villa next to
the city wall. His "court", as it had to be termed, was no more than
a hundred people, counting slaves. We dined meagrely. There was
never enough wine. But the conversation was good. Oribasius kept
us all amused as well as healthy. He was, even then, compiling
remedies from every witch he could find, and trying them out on
us. Eutherius was also an amiable companion.
I note with some amusement that though Julian mentions
specifically my joining him at Vienne, he says nothing of the far
more important person who arrived at the new year: his
wife Helena. I was not present when she came to Vienne but I
am told that she arrived with a luxurious suite of hairdressers,
seamstresses, cooks, eunuchs, and wagon-loads of fine clothes and
jewels. I don't think she ever got over the shock of that cold
depressing villa. But Julian was always very kind to her, though
somewhat absent-minded. He would start to leave table without
her, or openly make plans for a visit to a near by town and then
forget to include her in the arrangements. I think she liked him a
good deal more than he liked her. Not that he disliked her; rather,
he was profoundly indifferent. I doubt if he performed his con-
jugal duties often. Even so, she was twice pregnant in the
four years they were married.
My chief memory of Helena is her valiant attempts not to look
bored when Julian was talking excitedly about those things which
interested him and mystified her. Fortunately, she had learned
the royal art of yawning without opening the mouth; but if one
watched her very carefully, whenever there was talk of Plato or
lamblichos or you, my dear Libanius (great triad!), one could see
her nostrils dilate suspiciously from time to time. I am certain that
we literally bored Helena to death.

Libanius: I cannot imagine anyone finding it remarkable that
Julian should speak of Plato, Iamblichos and myself as being of a
quality. But one can always trust Priscus to be envious. "Great
triad !" indeed ! Simply because he has failed as a philosopher and
a teacher, he would like to bring down all his contemporaries to
his own level. Well, he will fail in that, too.

Julian Augustus
It is not easy to understand the Gauls. Their ways are strange
to us, despite their many years as Roman subjects. I think they

[~891


are the handsomest of the world's people. Both men and women
are tall and fair-skinned, often with blue eyes and blond hair. They
are forever washing their clothes and bodies. One can go from one
end of the province to the other without seeing a man or woman
in soiled or ragged clothes. Laundry hangs drying beside every
hovel, no matter how poor.
But despite their beauty, they are remarkably quarrelsome. Both
men and women speak with curiously loud voices, braying their
vowels and sounding hard their consonants. Whenever I gave
justice, I used to be deafened by the rival lawyers and claimants,
all bellowing like wounded bulls. They boast that in a fight one
Gaul is worth ten Italians. I'm afraid this is true. They love battle.
They have both the strength and heart for it. And their women
love fighting, too. It is not at all unusual for a Gaul in the heat of
battle to call to his wife to aid him. When she does, his strength
increases tenfold. With my own eyes I have seen Gallic women
attack the enemy, teeth gnashing, necks corded with veins, large
white arms revolving like the cross-piece of a windmill, while their
feet kick like shots discharged by catapult. They are formidable.
The Gallic men take pride in military service, unlike the Italians,
who think nothing of cutting off their own thumbs to thwart the
state's recruiting officers. Gauls, however, delight in blood-letting,
and they would be the greatest of all soldiers but for two reasons:
they do not take well to military discipline, and they are drunks.
At the most inconvenient moments a commander of Gallic troops
is apt to find his soldiers mad with drink, under the excuse that
such and such a day is holy and must be marked with a little wine
or one of those powerful drinks they brew from grain and
vegetables.
I shall not describe my campaigns in Gaul, for I have already pub-
lished an account of them which flatterers declare is the equal of
Julius Caesar's Commentaries. I will say that I put more care into
writing about the Gallic wars than I did in fighting them ! But I shall
record some of the things which I could not reveal at the time.

The winter 355-356 was a painful one for me. I had no authority.
I was ignored by the praetorian prefect. I had no duties, except to
make an occasional progress through the countryside. Yet when-
ever I did show myself to the Gauls, I attracted large crowds.
Even on the frostiest winter days, the people would come from

[~9o]


miles around to look at me, and cheer me on. I was much moved
even though I was aware that often as not they hailed me
not as Julian Caesar but as ]ulius Caesar. Indeed, there was a legend
among the peasants that the great Julius had once vowed that he
would return from the grave to protect Gaul from its enemies;
many thought the time had now come for the dead general to keep
his promise, and that I was he.
Out of these progresses came several unexpected victories for us.
One town, besieged by Germans, took heart at the presence of the
Caesar, and the townspeople drove the enemy from their fields.
Another town in Aquitania, defended only by old men, repulsed
a German attack, shouting my name as war-cry and talisman of
victory.
In Aquitania I fought my first "battle". We were passing two
abreast through a thick forest, when a band of Germans fell upon
us. For a moment I was afraid my Italians would break and run.
But they held their ground. That is all one needs when taken by
surprise. In those first few minutes of attack an alert commander
can rally his troops and strike back, if they hold fast initially.
Fortunately, we were at the forest's edge. I ordered the men at
the front to divert the Germans while the men at the rear got
through the forest to the open plain. In a matter of minutes, our
men were free of the woods. There were no casualties. Then, when
we began to get the better of the Germans, they promptly fled: first
one, then another, then several at a time.
Suddenly I heard myself shouting, "After them ! Cut them off !"
My troops obeyed. The Germans were now in full flight, back into
the forest. "A silver piece for every German head !" I shouted. This
bloodthirsty cry was taken up by my officers. It was the incentive
needed. Roaring with excitement and greed, my troops fell upon
the enemy. By the end of the day, a hundred German heads had
been brought to me.
I have described this engagement not because it was of military
importance- it was not- but because this was my first taste of
battle. Unlike nearly all my predecessors (not to mention any con-
scientious patrician), I was quite without military experience. I
had never even seen a man killed in battle. I had always preferred
peace to war, study to action, life to death. Yet there I was shout-
ing myself hoarse on the edge of a Gallic forest, with a small hill
of bloody human heads in front of me. Was I sickened? or
ashamed ? Neither. I was excited in a way that men who choose

[~9I]


to serve Aphrodite are excited by love. I still prefer philosophy
to war, but nothing else. How I came to be like this is a mystery
whose origin must be divine, determined by that fierce sun who
is the genesis of all men and the protector of kings.
As we rode back to Vienne in the pale winter light, I trembled
with an excitement that was close to joy, for I knew now that I
would survive. Until that moment, I had not been certain of my-
self. For all that I knew, I might have been a coward or, worse, too
paralysed by the confusion of the moment to make those swift
decisions without which no battle was ever won. Yet when the
shouting had begun and the blood flowed, I was exalted. I
saw what had to be done with perfect clarity, and I did it.
This skirmish was not taken very seriously at Vienne. What
was taken seriously, however, was the fact that Constantius had
named me his fellow consul for the new year. It was his eighth con-
sulship, my first. I was pleased, but only moderately. I have never
understood why men so value this ancient title. The consul has no
power (unless he also happens to be emperor), yet ambitious men
will spend a fortune to be admitted to consular rank. Of course,
one's name will be known for ever, since all dates are figured by
consulates. Even so, I am not much drawn to any form which has
lost its meaning. Yet at my investiture, Florentius was almost civil,
which was something gained. In a private meeting, he told me, "We
plan an offensive in the late spring. You will, if you choose, take
part."
"As commander ?"
"Caesar commands all of Gaul."
"Caesar is most sensible of his high place. But am I to lead the
armies ? Am I to plan the war ?"
"You will be our guide in all things, Caesar." He was evasive.
Clearly, he was not about to give up control of the province. But
a beginning was made. The wall was breached. Now it was up to
me to exploit this small change for the better.
When Florentius had departed, I sent for Sallust, my military
adviser. He had been assigned to me when I first arrived in Gaul
and I am forever in Constantius's debt for having brought the two
of us together. Sallust is both Roman soldier and Greek philosopher.
What higher compliment can I give him ? When we met, Sallust
was in his late forties. He is tall, slow of speech but swift of mind;
he comes of an ancient Roman family and like so many Romans of
the aristocracy he has never wavered in his allegiance to the true

[I92]


gods. A close friend of such distinguished Hellenists as Symmachus
and Praetextatus, he published some years ago a classic defence of
our religion, On the Gods and the World. As Maximus is my guide
to mysteries and Libanius my model for literary style, so Sallust re-
mains my ideal of what a man should be.
Sallust was as pleased as I by the news. Together we studied a
map of Gaul, and decided that the best move would be to
strike directly at Strasbourg. This large city not only commanded
a considerable part of the Rhine; it was also being used as a centre
of operations by King Chnodomar. Its recapture would greatly
strengthen us and weaken the enemy.
"There is a lesson in this," said Sallust suddenly.
"In what?"
"Why are the Germans in Gaul ?"
"Plunder. Desire for more territory. Why do the barbarian tribes
ever move from place to place ?"
"They are in Gaul because Constantius invited the tribes to
help him against Magnentius. They helped him. And then they re-
mained in Gaul."
The point was well taken. One must never appeal for help to
barbarians. Engage them as mercenaries, bribe them if that is the
only way to keep the peace, but never allow a tribe to move into
Roman territory for eventually they will attempt to seize what is
Roman for themselves. Even as Sallust and I were talking, Con-
stantius was on the Danube, fighting two rebel tribes he had once
allowed to settle there.
Sallust then told me that there was conclusive evidence
that Florentius was dealing secretly with certain of the German
chiefs. Some he paid on the sly to remain where they were; others
paid him not to disturb their present holdings. Carefully Sallust
and I constructed our case against Florentius.

In May the plan to strike directly at Strasburg was submitted
by Sallust and me to Florentius and his general, Marcellus. It was
promptly dismissed. We argued. We begged. We promised victory.
But they would not listen.
"We are not yet ready to commit the army to a major battle.
This is not the time." As Marcellus was provincial commander-in-
chief, I was forced to obey.
"At what time," I asked, looking about the council chamber


(we were in the prefect's palace), "will we be able to obey the
Emperor and drive the Germans out of Gaul ?"
Florentius was suave. His manner to me, although still con-
descending, was more cautious than before. Obviously, I was not
to fall without careful effort on his part.
"May I propose to the Caesar a compromise ?" Florentius played
with a delicate purse of deerskin, containing his god, gold. "We
have not the men for a major campaign. Until the Emperor sends
reinforcements, which he is not apt to do this year since he is
already committed on the Danube, we must confine ourselves to
holding what we have, and to regaining what we can, without too
much risk."
Florentius clapped his hands, and a secretary who was squatting
against a wall sprang to his feet. Florentius was most imperial in
his ways, but then, praetorian prefects are important men. At this
time Florentius governed Morocco, Spain, Gaul and Britain. The
secretary held up a map of Gaul.
Florentius pointed to a town called Autun, iust north of us. "We
have received news that the town is besieged." I almost asked why
I had not been told before, but I held my tongue. "Now if the
Caesar chooses, he might-with General Sallust-" Florentius
addressed a small crooked smile at Sallust, whose face remained
politely attentive - "relieve Autun. It is an old city. The walls were
once impregnable but they are now in considerable disrepair, like
nearly all our alefences, I'm afraid. There is not much of a garrison
but the townspeople are valiant."
I told him quickly that nothing would please me more. I would
go immediately to the relief of Autun.
"Of course," said Florentius, "it will take several weeks to equip
your troops, to assemble supplies, to . . ."
"One good thing," Marcellus interrupted, "you won't have to
worry about siege engines. Even if the Germans capture the city
before you get there, they won't occupy it. They never do.""But what about Cologne and Strasbourg ?"
"Destroyed," said Marcellus, with almost as much pleasure as
if he personally had done the destroying. "But not occupied. The
Germans are frightened of cities. They won't stay in one over-
night."
"Their custom," said Florentius, "is to occupy the countryside
around a city and starve the inhabitants. When the city finally
capitulates, they burn it and move on."

[~4~


"How many troops will I be allowed ?"
"We are not certain just yet. There are other... contingencies."
Florentius shifted from hand to hand the purse of gold. "But in a
few weeks we shall know and then the Caesar may begin his
first... Gallic war." This jibe was crude but I had learned not to
show offence.
"Then see to it, Prefect," I said, as royally as possible, and
accompanied by Sallust I left the palace.
As we walked through the city streets to my villa, not even the
memory of Florentius's contempt could shatter the delight I took
in the thought of action. "Just one successful campaign and Con-
stantius will give me the whole army!"
"Perhaps." Sallust was thoughtful. We crossed the square, where
carts from the countryside were gathering with the first of the
season's produce. Two guards followed me at a discreet distance.
Though I was Caesar, the townspeople were by now quite used to
seeing me wander alone in the streets and where before they had
done me frightened obeisance, they now greeted me - respectfully
of course - as a neighbour.
"Only .... "Sallust stopped.
"Only if I have too great a victory, Constantius will see to it that
I never command an army again.""Exactly."
I shrugged. "I must take my chances. Besides, after the Danube,
Constantius will have to face the Persians. He'll have no choice
except to trust me. There's no one else. If I can hold Gaul, then he
must let me."
"But suppose he does not go against Persia ? Suppose he moves
against you ?"
"Suppose I am struck dead by . . . that cart?" And we both
leaped to the side of the road as a bullock-cart rumbled past
us while its driver loudly cursed it and us and the gods who
had made him late for market. "It will be all right, Sallust," I said
as we approached the villa. "I have had signs."
Sallust accepted this, for he knew that I was under the special
protection of Hermes, who is the swift intelligence of the universe.


XI

On 22 June I left Vienne at the head of an army of twelve thou-
sand men- cuirassiers, crossbowmen and infantry. The whole
town came out to see us off. Florentius radiated irony, while
Marcellus could hardly disguise his amusement. I am sure that they
thought this was the last they would see of me. Helena bade
me farewell with stoic dignity. She was the essence of a
Roman matron, quite prepared for me to return upon my shield.
It was a sunny day as we rode out of the city. On my right was
Sallust and on my left Oribasius. Directly in front of me a standard-
bearer carried a hideously lifelike image of Constantius, crowned
and wearing the imperial robe. My cousin had recently sent me this
effigy, with a long set of instructions on how I was to show it off.
He also reminded me that I had not been sent to Gaul as monarch
but as a representative of the Emperor whose principal task was to
display the imperial robe and image to the people. Despite
this small humiliation, I was in high spirits as we took to the road.
We arrived at Autun 26 June. On that same day I defeated the
Germans and set the city free. Note to secretary: At this point insert
relevant chapter from my book, The Gallic Wars. It should be that
section which covers the campaign from Autun to Auxerre
to Troyes to Rheims, where I passed the month of August.

Priscus: As Julian described, $allust on his right, Oribasius on his
left, and myself just behind. His official account of the campaign
is generally accurate. From Julius Caesar on, commanders
tend to give themselves the best of it in their memoirs, but Julian
was usually honest. Of course he tended not to mention his mis-
takes. He does not tell how he lost the better part of a legion
through carelessness: he sent them through a forest where he had
been warned that there were Germans... and there were
Germans. But in general, Julian was a cautious commander. He
seldom committed a man unless he was certain that the odds were
in his favour. Or so the experts assure us. I know practically
nothing of military matters, even though I served with Julian both
in Gaul and Persia. I was not of course a soldier, though I did fight
from time to time, with no pleasure. I experienced none of

[t96]



that blood lust he referred to some pages back, a rather surprising
admission because in conversation Julian never once admitted to a
liking for war.
Sallust took care of all details. He was most capable and in every
way an admirable man. Too admirable, perhaps ? One often had the
feeling that he was playing a part (usually that of Marcus Aurelius);
he was invariably demure and diffident and modest and sensible, all
those things the world believes it admires. Which is the point. Less
self-conscious men invariably have traits we do not admire. The
good and the bad are all mixed together. Sallust was all good. That
must have taken intense self-discipline as well as the aware-
ness that he was indeed trying to be something he was not. But no
matter what his motives, he was impressive, and a good influence
on Julian.
Julian lifted the siege at Autun. He then marched north to
Auxerre. He rested there a few days. He always took every possible
opportunity to refresh his troops, unlike so many generals
who drive them past their strength. From Auxerre we moved to
Troyes. This was a difficult journey. We were continually harassed
by Germans. They are a frightening-looking people, tall and mus-
cular, with long hair dyed bright red, a tribal custom. They dress
pretty much like us, wearing armour pilfered from Roman corpses.
In open country, they are easily vanquished, but in forests they are
dangerous.
At Troyes we spent several hours outside the walls trying to ex-
plain to the frightened garrison that we were not Germans and that
this was indeed the Caesar. Finally Julian himself, with that
"hideously lifelike" image of Constantius beside him, ordered the
people to open the gates.
We stayed at Troyes a day. Then we moved on to Rheims. Julian
had previously agreed with Florentius that the main army of Gaul
would be concentrated there in August, preparatory to retaking
Cologne. So Marcellus was already at Rheims when we got there.
Shortly after we arrived, a military council was called. Weary
from the long ride and longing for the baths, I accompanied Julian
and $allust to the meeting.
Marcellus was hardly pleased to find Julian so obviously thriving
on military life. When Julian inquired if the troops were ready, he
was told that they were not. When would they be ready ? Evasion.
Finally: a major offensive was not possible this year.
Then Julian rose and lied with the genius of a Ulysses. I

[~97]


could hardly believe my ears. He spoke first in sorrow. "I had hoped
to find all of you here eager and ready to fight the tribes. Instead,
I find nothing is planned and we are on the defensive,
as usual." Marcellus began to mutter dangerously but Julian
was in full flow. You know what he was like when the spirit {often
identified as Helios) was upon him.
"I was sent here, General, by the divine Emperor to show
his image to the barbarians. I was also sent here to recover the cities
you have lost. I was sent here to drive the savages back to their
forests beyond the Rhine. I have sworn as Caesar to conquer them
or to die."
"But Caesar, we..." That was all Marcellus was allowed to say.
As Julian talked through him, he withdrew a document from his
tunic. It was the booklet on etiquette that Constantius had given
him. "Do you see this, General ? All of you ?" Julian waved it like
a standard in the air. No one could tell what it was exactly, but the
imperial seal was perfectly visible.
"It is from the divine Emperor. It is to me. It arrived by special
messenger at Autun. It contains orders. We are to regain Cologne.
Those are his commands and we are his slaves. We have no choice
but to obey."
There was consternation on Marcellus's side of the council
table. No one had heard of these instructions for the excel-
lent reason that they did not exist. But the bold lie worked largely
because Marcellus was a true politician in the sense that he could
not admit that there was anything which he ought to know that in
fact he did not know. He gave Julian the army.

Julian Augustus
At Rheims I reviewed the legions as they marched through the
city gates, all of us sweating in the hot August sun. It was a lower-
ing day, humid and ill-omened. As I stood on the platform outside
the city gate, gnats whirring about my head and sweat trickling
down my face, a message from Vienne was handed to me. It was a
brief note from Florentius. My wife had been delivered of a boy
who had died shortly afterwards. She was in good health. That was
all.
It is an odd thing to be the father of a son and the grieving father
of a dead son, all in the same instant. I handed the letter to Sallust.
Then I turned back to the legions who were marching rhythmically
now in Pyrrhic measure to the sound of pipes.

[~98]


Priscus: The midwife cut too short the child's umbilical cord.
We later learned that she had been paid to do this by the Empress
Eusebia. Yet I never heard Julian refer to Eusebia in any but
the most glowing terms. It is sad how tangled the relations among
princes become . . . What a ridiculous statement! We are all in
the habit of censuring the great, as if we were popular playwrights,
when in fact ordinary folk are quite as devious and as wilful and
as desperate to survive (if not to prevail) as are the great; particu-
larly philosophers.
Julian skips the rest of that year's campaign with a note that a
section from his earlier book will be inserted. That will be
your task. Personally, I find his book on the Gallic wars almost as
boring as Julius Caesar's. I say "almost" because a description
of something one has lived through can never be entirely dull.
But descriptions of battles soon pall. I would suggest - although
you have not asked for my literary advice - that you keep the mili-
tary inserts to a minimum.
Julian's autumn campaign was a success. He fought a set battle
at Brumath which strategists regard as a model of brilliant war-
fare. I wouldn't know. At the time I thought it confusing, but it
opened the road to Cologne. That part of the world, by the way,
is quite lovely, especially a spot called the Confluence, where-
obviously- two rivers join, the Moselle and the Rhine, at a town
called gemagen- ours; just past Remagen is an old Roman tower
which commands the countryside. Not far from gemagen is
Cologne, which to everyone's amazement Julian regained, after a
brief battle.
We remained at Cologne all of September. Julian was in excel-
lent form. Several of the Frankish chiefs paid him court and he
both charmed and awed them, a rare gift which he apparently
shared, if one is to trust Cicero, with Julius Caesar.
A light note of no consequence: Oribasius bet me one gold
piece that Constantius would take revenge on Julian for lying
to Marcellus. I bet him that he would not. I won the gold
piece. We then spent the winter at Sens, a depressing pro-
vincial town north of Vienne. It was nearly the last winter for all
of us.

]ulian Augustus
After the victories described, I went into winter quarters at a
pleasant town called Sens whose particular virtue was that it kept

[~993


me at a proper distance from Florentius at Vienne and Marcellus
at Rheims.
During those months Helena kept much to herself. She had
several ladies with her from the court at Milan and I think that
she was reasonably content, though she was not in good health:
because of her age, the birth had been a difficult one. I was always
ill at ease with Helena. I could hardly forget that she was the sister
of my enemy. For a long time I was uncertain to which of us she
was loyal. I do know that she kept up a considerable correspond-
ence with her brother (since destroyed; by whom? very mys-
terious); as a result, I was careful to say nothing in her presence
which might make Constantius suspicious. This self-restraint was
a considerable burden for me.
Only once did Helena reveal that she had some idea of what
was in my mind and heart. It was in December. We had dined
frugally in my office, which was easier to heat than the state
apartments. Several braziers gave forth sufficient heat- at least
for me; Priscus used to complain bitterly of my meanness in this
regard. Helena sat with her ladies at the opposite end of the room,
listening to one of the women sing Greek songs, while Oribasius,
Sallust, Priscus and I reclined on couches at the other end of the
room.
We spoke idly at first, as one does after supper. We touched on
the military situation. It was not good. Despite my victory at
Cologne, Florentius had left me with only two legions. The rest
of my army had been recalled to Rheims and Vienne. I was in
the same position I had been my first winter at Vienne, a prince
with no principality. Only now I carried a larger burden. But as
the old saying goes, "A pack-saddle is put on an ox; that is surely
no burden for me." It was my task not only to hold Sens but to pro-
tect the neighbouring villages from the German tribes who were,
even in the dead of winter, moving restlessly from town to town,
burning and pillaging. In fact, Chnodomar himself had sworn that
he would hang me before the spring thaw. To garrison the near-by
towns, I was obliged to give up two-thirds of the soldiers under
my command. Added to this, we were faced with an unusual
number of desertions, especially among the Italian soldiers.
"Any man who deserts should be executed," said Sallust,
"publicly, before the legions."
"It is remarkably difficult, General," said Priscus in his sly way,
"to execute a deserter. First, you must catch him."

[200]


"The only solution," I said, "is victory. If we are successful, the
men will be loyal. There are few deserters in a winning army."
"But we are neither winning nor an army," said Priscus with
unpleasant accuracy.
"Which is exactly what the Emperor wants." Oribasius spoke
too loudly. I silenced him with a gesture. Helena had heard this
but she made no sign.
"I am sure the divine Emperor, my cousin and colleague, is
eager for us to succeed in driving the Germans from Gaul."
Actually, I had received no word from Constantius since taking
up residence at Sens. I assumed that he was angry with me for not
returning to Vienne.
Then Priscus asked me to read from the panegyric I was writing
on Eusebia. I sent for a notary, who brought me the manuscript. I
read a few pages, not liking it at all. The work was rough. I said so.
"Probably," said the wicked Priscus, "because it is nearly
sincere."
The others laughed. At Vienne I had written a lengthy panegyric
of Constantius which-if I say so myself-was a masterpiece,
carefully ordered and beautifull7 composed. The art of panegyric
does not necessarily exclude honesty, though one's true feelings
are perfectly irrelevant to the final composition, which is artifice,
not truth. Even Constantius realized that I had created something
marvellous and wrote me a letter in his own hand, filled with mis-
spellings and errors of syntax. I then tried to write a panegyric on
Eusebia, and found it difficult; no doubt, as Priscus suggested, be-
cause of my true regard for the subject. Also, I was honour bound
not to reveal to what extent she had saved my life. This was
limiting.
While we were talking amiably, I heard far off the uneasy neigh-
ing of horses, but thought nothing of it. Then Oribasius mentioned
those Hebrew books which the Galileans refer to as the old testa-
ment. This was a favourite subject with me. $o much so that I
forgot Helena was in the room. "I admire the Jews because of their
devotion to a single god. I also admire them because of their self-
discipline. But I deplore the way they interpret their god. He is
supposed to be universal, but he is interested only in them . . ."
"Christ," said my wife suddenly, "was sent by God to all of us."
There was an embarrassed silence.
"The issue," I said finally, with great gentleness, "is just that:
would the One God intervene in such a way ?"

[201]


"We believe that He did."
The room was now completely still save for the far-off sound of
horses. My companions were on edge.
"Yet is it not written in the so-called gospel of John, that 'out
of Galilee arises no prophet' ?"
"God is God, not a prophet," said Helena.
"But the idea of the Nazarene's mission, in his own words, is
taken from the old testament, which is Jewish, which says that a
prophet - a messiah - will one day come to the Jews, but not God
himself."
"That is a difficulty," she admitted.
"In fact," and I was stupidly blunt, "there is almost no connec-
tion between what the Galileans believe and what the Nazarene
preached. More to the point, I see nothing in the Jewish text that
would allow for such a monstrosity as the triple god. The Jews
were monotheists. The Galileans are atheists."
I had gone too far. Helena rose, bowed, and withdrew, accom-
panied by her ladies.
My companions were alarmed. Priscus spoke first. "What a gift
you have, Caesar, for making the difficult impossible!"
The others agreed. I asked their forgiveness. "Anyway," I said,
not believing my own words, "we can trust Helena.""I hope so." Sallust was gloomy.
"One must be true to what is true," I said, wishing as I so often
do that I had held my tongue.
There was a sudden shouting in the streets. We all sprang to
our feet. We had hardly got to the door when an officer arrived
to report that Sens was being attacked. Elsewhere I describe what
happened and I shall not repeat it here.

Priscus: We were besieged for a month. A number of our deserters
had gone over to the Germans and reported on our weakness.
Encouraged by this, and excited at the thought of capturing
a Roman Caesar, King Chnodomar marched on Sens. It was a diffi-
cult time and we owed our lives, finally, to Julian's energy and
intelligence. Though he could not make us cheerful or even con-
fident, he at least kept us dutiful and modestly hopeful.
That night the call to arms was sounded. Men rushed to their
posts on the battlements. The Germans could be seen less than half
a mile away, illuminated by burning farmhouses. It had been the
neighing of farm horses that had disturbed our after-dinner c0n-

[202]



versation. Had the Germans been quieter, they might have taken
the city. Fortunately for us, every last one of them was drunk.
During the next few days, Julian's mood changed from almost
boisterous excitement to grim rage. He was positive that he had
been deliberately abandoned. This suspicion was confirmed when
a messenger arrived from Rheims to say that Marcellus would not
come to our aid; he pleaded weakness. He also insisted that Julian
had sufficient men to repulse the Germans.
Our rations were nearly gone when the Germans departed as
suddenly as they had arrived. Long sieges bored them. Julian
immediately sent to Vienne for supplies. He then recalled all his
troops to Sens and the remainder of the winter was passed, if not
in comfort, at least without fear of sudden annihilation. Julian also
wrote Constantius a full account of Marcellus's refusal to come
to his aid. It was a splendid document. I know; Sallust and I helped
to write it. So splendid was it, in fact, that unlike most state papers
this one had an effect. Marcellus was recalled to Milan and after
a short interval Julian finally got what he wanted, the command
of the armies of Gaul.
The year 357 was the making of Julian as a world hero. In the
spring, when fi~e grain was ripe, he proceeded to Rheims, where
he learned that Barbatio, the commander of the Roman infantry,
was on his way to Augst with twenty-five thousand troops and
seven river boats. He was to assist Julian in a final drive against the
Germans. But before a plan could be devised, a tribe called the
Laeti passed through our territory and laid siege to Lyon, burning
all the countryside around. Julian quickly sent three squadrons of
light cavalry to relieve that city. He also set a watch on the three
roads radiating from Lyon, in order to ambush the savages when
they fled. Unfortunately, Barbatio's troops allowed the Germans
to get through because a tribune of targeteers, named Cella, acting
under Barbatio's orders, prevented the cavalry commander from
attacking. Why ? Barbatio was eager for Julian to fail. He was also
to some extent in league with the German tribes. Julian ordered
Cella and his staff cashiered; only the cavalry commander was
let off. He was, incidentally, Valentinian, our future emperor.
By now the Germans were alarmed. They tried to block our
progress to the Rhine by felling great trees across the roads. They
took refuge on the islands in the Rhine, where they used to bellow
all sorts of insults at us, and at night sing the most melancholy
songs. When Julian asked Barbatio for his seven ships, they were

[203]


promptly and mysteriously burned. So Julian, always inventive,
ordered the light-armoured auxiliaries of the Cornuti Legion to
swim out to one of the islands, using their wooden shields as rafts.
This worked. They killed the German defenders and then, using
German boats, attacked the other islands. The savages then
abandoned the remaining islands and fled into the eastern forest.
Julian next restored the fortress at Savernes, an important
installation because it stands directly in the path of anyone intent
on the conquest of central Gaul. He then harvested the crops the
Germans had planted. This gave him twenty days' rations. He
was now ready to face King Chnodomar. His only obstacle was
Barbatio. Happily for us, this extraordinary creature was attacked
by the Germans just north of Augst. Though Barbatio had a large,
well-disciplined army, he fled in a panic back to Augst and
promptly announced that he had won a famous victory and,
though it was only July, he went into winter quarters. That was
the end of him for the year. We were much relieved.
With thirteen thousand men, Julian marched directly on Stras-
bourg. A few miles from the city, Chnodomar sent Julian an
embassy commanding him to quit Gaul since this was now
"German country, won by German arms and valour". Julian
laughed at the king's envoys. But Chnodomar was not a man to be
taken lightly. Ever since he defeated the Caesar Decentius, he had
been free to come and go in Gaul as though it were indeed his own
kingdom. Now, encouraged by the collapse of Barbatio, he was
positive he would again be victorious.
The issue was resolved, as we all know, and I am sure you will
insert at this point Julian's account of the Battle of Strasbourg.
I think it is almost the best of his writings- and you know my
prejudice against military commentaries! Only the garrulousness
of age makes me go on as I have about these months in Gaul. I do
it partly to inform you and partly- to be honest-to see how
much memory I have left; more than I thought. One detail which
came back to me just as I wrote the word "memory": while riding
outside the walls of a Gallic town, I saw a cemetery where several
of the graves were covered with fishnets. I asked one of the native
soldiers what this meant. "It is to keep the ghosts of mothers who
die in childbirth from stealing back their children." There is a lot
of interesting folklore in that part of the world and I hope some
latter-day Herodotus will record it before the people become so,
completely Romanized that the old customs are forgotten.

[204]


Incidentally, it was at this time that Helena was recalled to
Rome, where Constantius was celebrating not only his first triumph
but his first visit to the capital. She was again pregnant, and again
she lost her baby, this time through a miscarriage brought on by
a potion Eusebia gave her.
As for the famous Battle of Strasbourg, I can add very little to
what Julian himself wrote.

Libanius: Then why do you ? Priscus keeps protesting he can add
little and then adds too much. He has aged. He always used to be
brief, to the point of being laconic, but now . . . !

Priscus: My own memories of that day in August are quite vivid
and surprisingly full, considering the fact that I have no memory
of what happened last year, or even this morning.
Julian had submitted his plan of battle to Florentius at Vienne
and to our surprise it was approved. No one will know what
Florentius's motives were. I suspect the fact that Julian had thir-
teen thousand troops while the German army numbered some
thirty-five thousand might have had something to do with it.
On the morning of i~} August we stopped some twenty miles
from the Rhine, on whose banks Chnodomar had assembled his
army. ! recall that day as one of the hottest I have ever experi-
enced. The heat was even worse than Persia, for it was damp.
Also, the air swarmed with insects, and I sneezed continually as I
always do at that time of year, the result of humours rising from
the rank earth.
I was at Julian's side through most of the battle, more as orna-
ment than as soldier, though I did lay about me from time to time
simply to avoid being killed. Julian made a good speech to the
army. His speeches, though never particularly brilliant, did have
the gift of striking precisely the right note with the men. I have
often wondered how such a bookish young man could have learned
to talk with such ease to some of the most formidably ignorant
and prejudiced men on earth. Yet he did. His cultured voice would
become harsh, his manner royal; the content modest, the effect
inspiring.
Julian sat his horse, with his standard-bearer beside him holding a
spear on which the imperial dragon fluttered in the hot wind, purple
and ominous. The infantry filled the narrow declivity at the
foot of the hill where Julian and his staff were posted, all knee-

[2os]


deep in ripened grain, for we were in the midst of a large farm.
Trumpets blared in unison. Squadrons of cavalry, cuirassiers and
archers moved in from left and right until Julian was surrounded.
When at last they were all assembled and silent, he spoke to them.
He was never more subtle though his manner was vigorous and
forthright. He wanted to persuade them to fight immediately, but
knowing that they were tired and hot from the sun, he realized
that he would have to trick them into wanting what he wanted.
"The thing we most care for is the safety of our men, and though
we are eager to engage the enemy, we also realize that rashness
can be dangerous and caution a virtue. Though we are all young
men and inclined to be impetuous, as Caesar I must be the one to
move warily, though - as you know - I am far from being timid.
Now here is our situation. It is almost noon. The heat is terrible.
It will get worse. We are all of us tired from a long march. We are
not certain of sufficient water this side of the Rhine. The enemy
is fresh, and waiting. So I suggest that we erect pickets, that we
eat and sleep and make ready for battle tomorrow, when, if it be
God's will, we shall strike at first light and with our eagles in the
advance, drive the Germans from Roman soil . . ."
But the legions interrupted him. They gnashed their teeth, a
terrible sound, and struck their spears against their shields.
Then one of the standard-bearers shouted, "Forward, Caesar!
Follow your star!" He turned dramatically to the legions. "We
have a general who will win! So if it be God's will, we shall free
Gaul this day! Hail, Caesar!"
This was all that was needed. As the legions cheered, Julian gave
the order to prepare for battle. After this, I had him to myself for
a moment. We were so close to one another that our stirrups
clashed. "A fine speech," I said. "Suitable for history."
He grinned like a schoolboy. "How did you like the standard-
bearer's speech?"
"Exactly what was required."
"I coached him in it last night, with gestures." Then Julian
deployed his troops. The Germans were already in battle forma-
tion. To left and right as far as the eye could see, their forces lined
the river. In their first rank was King Chnodomar, a big man with
a great belly who wore a scarlet plume in his helmet.
At noon, Julian ordered the attack. The Germans had dug
a number of trenches in our path and there, hidden by
green boughs, archers suddenly fired at the legions who halted

[206]


in consternation. They did not retreat; but they did not advance.
Julian was now in his element. Voice cracking with tension, he
darted from squadron to squadron, legion to legion. He drove the
men to attack. Those who fell back, he threatened. I cannot re-
member exactly what he said, but the burden of it was: these are
savages, these are the spoilers of Gaul, now is the chance to break
them, this is the moment we have waited for! He also used a wily
approach for those who seemed bent on retreat. "I beg you, don't
follow the enemy too closely ! Stop at the Rhine ! Let them drown.
But you be careful!"
For me, the day was confusion. In the course of that swelter-
ing afternoon, the battle was several times in doubt. At one point
our cavalry broke; they would have fled had they not come up
against a solid wall of infantry reserves behind them. My most
vivid memory is of the German faces. I have never seen anything
like them, nor hope to again in this world. Should there be a hell,
I am sure that I shall spend it entirely in the company of Germans
in battle. Their dyed red hair is worn long, and hangs about the
face like a lion's mane. They grind their teeth and shout words
which are not words but sounds of rage. Their eyes are quite mad
and staring, the veins thick in their necks. I suspect many of them
were drunk but not drunk enough to lose their ferocity. I killed
several, and was myself nearly killed.
After the Germans had split our cavalry, they turned on the
infantry, thinking to overwhelm them by sheer numbers. But they
did not reckon with the two best legions of Rome: the Cornuti
and the Bracchiati. These men in tortoise formation, heads masked
by their shields, steadily advanced into the German horde. This
was the crisis of the battle, just as Oribasius maintains that there
is a crisis in a fever when all at once it is decided whether the sick
man lives or dies. We lived. The Germans died. It was a great - a
sickening- butchery. Wounded and dying men lay four and five
deep on the river bank; some were suffocated by the bodies above
them; some literally drowned in blood. I was never again to see a
day quite like that one, for which I am thankful.
Suddenly, as though by some signal (but it was merely instinct;
other witnesses of war have noticed this same phenomenon), the
Germans broke for the river. Our men followed. It was a lurid
sight. The savages desperately tried to swim to the other side. At
one point, and this is no chronicler's exaggeration, the Rhine was
indeed red with blood.

[207]


It was now late afternoon. Aching in every muscle and trembling
from what I had seen and done, I found Julian and his staff already
encamped on a high bluff beside the river. Julian's tent had been
pitched in a grove of ash trees, and though his face was black
with sweat and dust, he seemed as fresh as when he began the
day. He embraced me warmly.
"Now we're all here !" he exclaimed. "And still alive." We drank
wine as the shadows of the trees around us lengthened, and Sallust
reported that we had lost four officers and two hundred and forty-
three men. No one could reckon the German losses but the next
day they were figured to be somewhere between five and six thou-
sand. It was the greatest victory for Roman arms in Gaul since
Julius Caesar. Difficult though it is for me to delight in military
affairs, I could not help but be caught up by the general excitement,
which increased when shortly before midnight King Chnodomar
himself was brought to us, arms pinned behind him, great belly
sagging, eyes white with terror. The Germans lack true pride, as
others have so often remarked. In victory they are overbearing; in
defeat cringing. The king threw himself at Julian's feet, moaning
his submission. The next day Julian sent him to Constantius, who
had him imprisoned in Rome's Castra Peregrina on the Caelian
Hill, where he died of old age. All in all, a better fate than was
to befall his conqueror.
Julian records nothing of the rest of the year. He decently buried
the Gallic dead. He returned to Savernes. He ordered captives and
booty to be taken to Metz. Then he crossed the Rhine into German
territory. He seized all livestock and grain; he burned the houses,
which are built exactly like ours even though the Germans are sup-
posed to prefer living in forest huts- so much for legend. Then
we penetrated those awesome vast woods which fill the centre of
Europe. There is nothing like them in the world. The trees are so
dense that only a dim green light ever penetrates to the ground.
Trees old as time make passage difficult. Here the savage tribes are
safe from attack, for what stranger could find his way through
that green labyrinth? and who would want to conquer those
haunted woods ? Except the Emperor Trajan. We stumbled upon
one of his abandoned forts, and Julian had it rebuilt and garrisoned.
Then we crossed the Rhine once more and went into winter
quarters at Paris, a city which the Romans always refer to, with
their usual elegance, as Mudtown.

[208]


XII

lulian Augustus
Of the cities of Gaul, I like Paris the best and I spent three con-
tented winters there. The town is on a small island in the River
Seine. Wooden bridges connect it to both banks where the towns-
people cultivate the land. It is lovely green country where almost
anything will grow, even fig trees. My first winter I set out a dozen
(jacketed in straw) and all but one survived. Of course the Paris
winters are not as cold as those at Sens or Vienne because the
nearness of the ocean warms the air. As a result, the Seine seldom
freezes over; and its water - as anyone knows who has ever visited
there - is remarkably sweet and good to drink. The town is built
of wood and brick, with a fair-sized prefect's palace which I used
as headquarters. From my second-floor study, I could see the water
as it divided at the island's sharp tip, like the sea breaking on a
ship's prow. In fact, if one stares hard enough at that point in the
river one has a curious sense of movement, of indeed being on a
ship in full sail, the green shore rushing past.
As for the Parisians, they are a hard-working people who delight
in the theatre and (alas) in Galilean ceremonies. In the winter they
are townsfolk, and in the summer peasants. By the most remark-
able good luck, they combine the best rather than the worst aspects
of the two estates. We got on very well together, the Parisians
and I.
Relations with Florentius grew worse. At every turn he tried to
undermine my authority. Finally I fell out with him over money.
Because of the German invasion, the landowners had suffered great
losses. Year after year, whole harvests had been destroyed, build-
ings burned, livestock stolen. To lessen the burden of men already
bankrupt, I proposed that both the poll tax and the land tax be re-
duced from twenty-five to seven gold pieces a year. Florentius
vetoed this, countering with an outrageous proposal that a special
levy be raised against all property, to defray the cost of my cam-
paign! Not only was this proposed tax unjust, it would have
caused a revolt.
Now although Florentius controlled the administration and civil
service, as resident Caesar, no measure was legal without my seal.

[209]


So when Florentius sent me the proposed capital levy, I sent it back
to him unsigned. I also enclosed a long memorandum reviewing
the financial situation of Gaul, proving by exact figures that more
than sufficient revenue was now being raised through the conven-
tional forms of taxation. I also reminded him that many provinces
had been wrecked before by such measures as he proposed-
particularly Illyricum.
Messengers spent the winter dashing back and forth along the
icy roads from Paris to Vienne. The capital levy was dropped, but
Florentius was still determined to raise taxes. When he sent me a
proposal to increase the land tax, I would not sign it. In fact, I tore
it up and told the messenger to return the pieces to the praetorian
prefect, with my compliments.
Florentius then appealed to Constantius, who wrote me a sur-
prisingly mild letter. Part of it read: "You must realize, my dear
brother, that it hurts us if you undermine confidence in our
appointed officers of state at Gaul. FIorentius has his faults,
although youthful impetuosity is not one of them." (I was now
quite hardened to this sort of insult.) "He is a capable adminis-
trator with great experience, particularly in the field of taxation.
We have every confidence in him, nor can we in all honesty dis-
approve any effort towards increasing the state's revenue at a time
when the empire is threatened both on the Danube and in Mesopo-
tamia. We recommend to our brother that he be less zealous in his
attempts to gain fayour with the Gauls, and more helpful in our
prefect's honest attempts to finance your defence of the province."
A year earlier I would have bowed to Constantius without ques-
tion. I would also have been furious at the reference to my victory
at Strasbourg as a mere "defence of the province", but I was learn-
ing wisdom. I also knew that if I were to succeed in Gaul, I needed
the wholehearted support of the people. Already they looked to
me as their defender, not only against the savages but against the
avarice of Florentius.
I wrote Constantius that though I accepted his judgment in all
things, we could not hope to hold the province by increasing the
taxes of ruined men. I said that unless the Emperor directly ordered
me to sign the tax increase, I would not allow it to take effect.
There was consternation at Paris. We waited several weeks for
some answer. The betting, I am told, was rather heavily in fayour
of my being recalled. But I was not. By not answering, Constantius
condoned my action. I then reduced taxes. So grateful and

[2~o]


astonished were the provincials that we obtained our full tax
revenue beśore the usual time of payment. Today, Gaul is on a
sound financial basis. I mean to make similar tax reforms else-
where.
I am told that Constantius was shattered by the news of my
victory at Strasbourg. He was even more distressed when I sent
him King Chnodomar in chains, as visine proof of my victory.
But men have a way of evading hard fact, especially emperors who
are surrounded by toadies who invariably tell them what they
want to hear. The court nicknamed me "Victorinus" to emphasize
the tininess - in their eyes - of my victory. Later in the winter, I
was astonished to read how Constantius had personally taken
Strasbourg a,~d pacified Gaul. Proclamations of his great victory
were read in every corner of the empire, with no mention of me.
I have since been told by those who were at Milan that Constantius
eventually came to believe that he had indeed been in Strasbourg
that hot August day and with his own hands made captive the
German king. On the throne of the world, any delusion can become
fact.
The only sad matter that winter was my wife's health. She
had had another miscarriage while visiting Rome, and she com-
plained continually of pain in the stomach. Oribasius did his best
for her, but although he could lessen the pain, he could not cure
her.
My own health- since I seem never to refer to the subject-
is invariably good. Partly because I eat and drink sparingly, and
partly because our family is of strong stock. But I did come near
to death that winter. It happened in February. As I have said, my
quarters in the governor's palace overlooked the river, and my
rooms were not equipped with the usual heating through the floor.
As a result, I was always slightly cold. But I endured this, realizing
that I was hardening myself for days in the field. My wife used
to beg me to use braziers but I refused, pointing out that if the
rooms were overheated, the damp walls would steam, making the
air poisonous.
But one evening I could bear the cold no longer. I was reading
late - poetry, as I recall. I summoned my secretary and ordered a
brazier of hot coals. It was brought. I continued to read. Soothed
by the lapping of the river beneath my window, I got drowsier
and drowsier. Then I fainted. The fumes from the coal combined
with the steam from the walls nearly suffocated me.

[2II]


Fortunately, one of the guards, seeing steam escape from under-
neath the door, broke in and dragged me into the corridor where
I finally came to. I vomited for hours. Oribasius said a few more
minutes in that room and I would have been dead. So my Spartan
habits saved my life; though some, of course, would say it was
my stinginess! Curiously enough, thinking back on that night, I
cannot help but reflect what a pleasant death it might have been.
One moment reading Pindar, the next a pleasant drowsiness, and
then the end. Every day I pray to Helios that my death when it
comes be as swift and as painless as that night's beginning.

My days were full. I gave justice or, as some say, merely
executed the law, since there is no true justice that is man-made.
I conferred daily on administrative problems with the various
officers of the province, and each month I personally paid the
salaries of the high officials. This is an ancient custom and I have
always meant to investigate its origins. They date, I suspect, from
the early Republic. Among those I personally paid were the secret
agents. Though I disapproved of them - and knew that their main
occupation at Paris was watching me and reporting on my move-
ments to Milan- I usually concealed my dislike. Except on one
occasion.
I sat at a table covered with hides. Gold in various piles was set
before me. When it came time to pay the chief agent, Gaudentius,
he reached forward and took the gold for himself, not waiting for
me to give it to him. Even his fellow agents were startled by this
rude gesture, to which I responded: "You see, gentlemen, it is
seizing, not accepting, that agents understand." This was much
quoted.
Evenings were spent, first, in business, then in sleep and, finally,
the best part, late at night, talking philosophy and literature with
friends, who used to wonder how I could so quickly fall asleep
and then awake at exactly the hour I wanted. I don't know myself
how this is done but I have always been able to do it. If I tell
myself I wish to awaken in the first hour of the night, I shall - to
the minute. I attribute this lucky gift to Hermes. But Oribasius
thinks it has to do with something in my brain and he wants to
take a look at it when I am dead !
Sallust was a considerable historian and drilled me extensively in
both domestic and foreign history. We particularly studied the


era of Diocletian, for it was he who renewed the empire in the
last century and his reforms are still with us.
One of our continuing arguments concerns Diocletian's edict
which ordered all men to remain for life at whatever happened
to be their craft or labour; also, their descendants must continue in
the same way: a farmer's son must be a farmer, a cobbler's son
must be a cobbler, and the punishment for changing one's estate
is severe. Sallust maintained, as did Diocletian, that this law was
necessary for social stability. In the old days, people drifted from
city to city, living on doles or through crime. As a result, produc-
tion of all things was inadequate. Diocletian not only stabilized pro-
duction but he even tried to set prices for food and other essentials.
This last failed, which was a pity. A few months ago I myself
tried to set the price of grain at Antioch, and though I have for
the moment failed, I think in time this sort of manipulation will
succeed.
Priscus took the view that Diocletian's law was too rigid. He
thought the people should be allowed to change their lot ff they
showed sufftcient capacity. But who is to iudge their capacity ? He
was never able to answer this. Oribasius proposed that the court
send out commissions to the main cities to examine the young men
to determine which ones showed ability. I pointed out that the
corruption involved would be formidable; not to mention the
impossibility of judging thousands correctly. Personally, ! believe
that the lower orders do, on occasion, produce men of ability and
I believe that that ability, if it is sufficiently great, will be some-
how recognized and used. For one thing, there is always the army.
A farmer's son who is ambitious can join the army, which is - in
the old Greek sense - the most democratic of institutions: anyone
can rise through the ranks, no matter how humble his origins.
Pdscus responded to this by saying that not every one of abiliW is
inclined to warfare. I was forced to agree that there is indeed
some hardship for a man whose talents might be for literature or
for the law, but as Sallust was quick to point out, the law schools at
Beirut and Constantinople are crowded, and the civil service has
more "capable" candidates than it can find jobs for. We have quite
enough lawyers.
Priscus thinks that there should be widespread literacy. Sallust
thinks not, on the grounds that a knowledge of literature would
only make the humble dissatisfied with their condition. I am of
two minds. A superficial education would be worse than none:


envy and idleness would be encouraged. But a full education would
open every man's eyes to the nature of human existence; and we
are all of us brothers, as Epictetus reminds us. I have not yet made
up my mind as to this problem. It is doubly difficult because of
language. To educate anyone properly he must be taught Greek.
Yet in a supposedly Hellenic city like Antioch, less than half the
population knows Greek; the rest speak one or another of the
Semitic languages. The same is true of Alexandria and the cities of
Asia. A further complication is the matter of Latin. The language
of both law and army is Latin, while that of literature and
administration is Greek. As a result, an educated man must
be bilingual. If he were the son, say, of a Syrian tailor in Antioch
he would have to be trilingual. Just learning languages would take
up most of his time. I know. As much as I have studied Latin, I'can
still hardly read it. And though I speak the military jargon easily,
it bears little relation to Cicero whom I read in Greek translation !
So we argued among ourselves in the best of spirits through the
winter and a most beautiful spring which covered the banks of
the Seine with flowers, and reminded us, in life, what Eleusis shows
us in mystery.
At the beginning of June the idyll ended. Constantius trans-
ferred Sallust to army headquarters at Milan. He cut off my right
arm. My response: grief, rage, and, finally, in imitation of the
philosophers, I composed a long essay on the gods, and dedicated
it to Sallust.
Insert account of that summer's campaign.

Priscus: That year's campaign was a troublesome one. Constantit:s
had neglected to supply Julian with money to pay his troops. Also,
supplies were short and what grain Julian could amass, he was
forced to render into hard tack, not the sort of ration calculated
to please troops already exhausted from much fighting, Julian
was so short of funds that on at least one occasion when a
soldier asked him for what the men call "shave money" or "the
barber's due", he was not able to give the man even one small
coin.
Julian moved north to Flanders. In a most guileful way, he con-
quered a Frankish tribe which occupied the city of Tongres. Then
he defeated a German tribe called the Chornevi who dwell at the
mouth of the Rhine. After that he marched to the Meuse River
and restored three of our ruined fortresses. At this point, the food

[2~4]



gave out. The local harvest was late, and the troops were on the
verge of mutiny. They jeered Julian in public and called him
"Asiatic" and "Greekling". But he comported himself with dignity,
stripped the countryside of what food there was, and quelled the
mutiny.
Next Julian built a pontoon bridge across the Rhine and we
crossed over into the country of the German king, Suomarius...
but all that is in the military history. After this short campaign, we
recrossed the Rhine and returned to Paris for the winter.

Julian Augustus
Our second winter in Paris was even more agreeable than the
first, though I missed Sallust more than I could say - but then I did
say it, in panegyric prose ! I still had no money. I was watched and
reported on by the secret agent Gaudentius. My wife continued to
be ill. Yet despite all this, I was content. I had grown used to
governing, and I no longer thought wistfully of a private life,
teaching at Athens. I was well pleased to be Caesar in Gaul.
The principal event of the winter was the first major trial I was
to preside over. Numerius, governor of Gallia Narbonensis (one of
the Mediterranean provinces), was accused of embezzling state
funds. Enemies had prepared a damning case against him. He was
brought to Paris for trial. It was a fascinating experience for me
and almost as interesting for the Parisians as their beloved theatre,
for I allowed the public to attend the trial.
Day after day the hall of justice was crowded. It was soon
apparent that there was no proper evidence against Numerius. He
was a striking-looking man, tall and stately. He chose to defend
himself against Delphidius, the public prosecutor. Now Delphidius
is one of the most vigorous speakers and cunning legal minds in the
empire but even he could not make evidence out of air, though he
certainly tried, using his own breath.
Numerius had made political enemies, as we all do, and they
had trumped up charges against him in the hope that I might
remove him. Point by point Numerius refuted every charge against
him so skilfully that Delphidius finally turned to me and shouted
angrily, "Can anyone, great Caesar, ever be found guilty if all he
must do is deny the charge ?" To which I answered in one of those
rare unpremeditated bursts in which- at least so I like to think-
the gods speak through me: "Can anyone ever be found innocent,
if all you must do is accuse him ?" There was a sudden silence in

[2~]


the hall. Then a great burst of applause, and that was the end of
the trial.
I tell this story out of vanity, of course. I am very pleased with
what I- or Hermes- said. But to be honest, I am not the best
judge in the world. Often when I think I am making some subtle
point, I am actually only spreading confusion. Yet I mention this
story because it demonstrates, I believe, the true basis of law.
Those of the earth's governors who have been tyrants have always
presumed that if a man is thought guilty then he must be guilty
because why otherwise would he find himself in such a situation.
Now any tyrant knows that a man may be perfectly blameless
but have powerful enemies (very often the tyrant himself is chief
among them), which is why I prefer to place the burden of proof
on the accuser rather than on the accused.

Helena was somewhat better that winter. She was particularly
animated whenever she discussed her visit to Rome. "Do you think
we shall ever be able to live there ?" she asked me one day, when -
rather unusually- we found ourselves dining alone.
"That is for your brother to decide," I said. "Personally, I like
Gaul. I could be quite happy living here the rest of my life."
"In Paris?" The way she said it revealed how much she hated
our life.
"Yes, but then who knows what will happen next year, next
week ?"
"You would love the house in Via Nomentana," she said wist-
fully. "I have the most beautiful gardens . . ."
"Better than ours ? Here ?" We were quite proud in Paris of the
many flowers and fruit trees that grew with small effort.
"Infinitely !" she sighed. "I should so much like to go back."
"I'm sorry." This was an awkward moment and I silently cursed
whoever it was had contrived for us to be alone together for a
meal. I don't think it ever happened again.
"My brother respects you." This was also unusual. We seldom
spoke of Constantius. "He only fears that you will . . . listen to
wrong advice." She put the case tactfully.
"He has nothing to fear," I said. "Either from me or my advisers.
I have no intention of usurping the throne. I want only to do what
I was sent here to do: pacify Gaul. And I may say your brother has
not made it easy for me."

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"Perhaps he listens to bad advisers." That was the most she
would admit.
I nodded grimly. "And I can name them, starting with
Eusebius . . ."
She broke in, "You have one friend at court." She pushed her
plate from her, as though clearing a place for something new to
be set down. "The Empress."
"I know . . ." I began. But Helena stopped me with a strange
look; for the first time in our marriage she struck an intimate note.
"Eusebia loves you." Helena said this in such a way that I could
not precisely tell what she meant by that overused and always ambi-
valent verb. "Her love is constant," she went on, adding but not
defining. "While she lives, you are safe. Of course, that may not
be long." Her voice shifted; she became more ordinary, more of a
woman telling gossip. "The night we arrived at Rome, there was a
reception for Constantius in the palace on the Palatine. The senate
of Rome and all the consulars were present. I've never seen any-
thing quite so splendid. My brother meant ,~t when he said, 'This
is the great moment of my life!' I suppose it always is when a
Roman emperor first comes to Rome. Anyway, Constantius wore
the crown, and Eusebia sat beside him. She seemed tired but no one
suspected she was ill. Then during the Emperor's reply to the
senate's welcome, she turned deathly pale. She tried to rise but her
robes were too heavy for her. Since everyone was watching Con-
stantius, hardly anyone noticed her. But I did. I was the first to
see the blood flow from her mouth. Then she fell backwards on to
the floor. She was unconscious when they carried her from the
room."
I was appalled. Not only at this bad news, but at Helena's
pleasure in Eusebia's pain. "Naturally, my brother - all of us -were
concerned. But in a few days she was all right. And of course she
was most kind to me when it came my turn to . . . bleed. All
through my labour, Eusebia was beside me. She could not have
been more kind. She even arranged for our dead child to be buried
in Constantia's mausoleum. She was as thoughtful as though I were
her own sister . . . instead of her enemy." Helena flung this last
word at me, and got to her feet. I was startled by the quality of
her rage.
"Your friend, your protectress, killed both our children." Helena
was now at the door. She spoke with complete calm, like a Sophist
who has studied exactly what and how he will say a written

[2~7]


speech. "You pride yourself on your philosophy, your love of
harmony and balance. Well, how do you measure this in your
scales ? Two children here." She held up her left hand. "Eusebia
here." She held up her right hand and made the scales even.
I did not answer her. How could I ? Then Helena left the room.
We never spoke of this matter again, but I respected her passion,
realizing that one can never entirely know another human being
even though one has shared the same bed and the same life.
A month later, we received word that Eusebia was dead.

While I wintered at Gaul, Constantius was a thousand miles
away at Sirmium, a large city on the border between Dalmatia and
Illyricum. Unlike me, he had a troubled winter. First Eusebia died.
Then, though he managed to put down the Sarmatians for a second
time, the Danube was far from pacified. The tribes were constantly
on the move, causing much damage to us. Constantius, however,
issued a proclamation declaring that as victor once again over the
Sarmatians, he was for a second time taking the title of "Sar-
maticus". He did not say how he wished to be styled but Priscus
thought we should refer to him as Constantius Sarmaticus
Sarmaticus.
My own relations with Constantius were no worse than usual.
Actually, his reverses tended to keep his mind off me. I do know
that he always referred contemptuously to my "success" in Gaul.
In fact, Eusebius used to delight in thinking up epithets for me,
knowing that they would amuse his master. Among the ones re-
peated to me - and it is amazing how much princes are told if they
choose to listen - were "chattering mule", "ape in purple", "Greek-
ish pedant", and "nanny goat" because I had let my beard grow
again.
Men are curious when it comes to fashion. Since Constantine
and his heirs were clean-shaven, everyone must now be clean-
shaven, especially high officials. I always answer those who
criticize my beard by pointing out that Hadrian and his successors
were all bearded, and that I consider their age superior to ours.
Actually, my beard is resented because philosophy is resented.
Philosophers wear beards; Julian wears a beard; therefore Julian
is a philosopher and may well share with that subversive tribe
sentiments hostile to the superstitions of the Galileans.
I have elsewhere described that year's campaign. In brief, I

[218]


rebuilt seven ruined towns on or near the Rhine, restored their
defences, filled their granaries and garrisoned them. The towns
were: Fort Hercules, Schenkenschanz, Kellern, Nuys, Andernach,
Bonn and Bingen. All were regained without great effort.

At Bingen, I had a surprise. The praetorian prefect Florentius,
whom I had not seen for more than two years, suddenly appeared
at the head of his army to assist me in my task. Since the cam-
paign was nearly over, I could do no more than thank him for the
graciousness of his gesture and extort as much grain and gold as I
could from him. We had an amusing interview.
Both oar camps were pitched outside Bingen. I chose to live in
my tent since the town was in considerable turmoil with rebuild-
ing, while the praetorian prefect's army was encamped to the
south of me, close to the river. Florentius requested audience the
day after our armies had converged. I granted it to him, noting
with some pleasure that Florentius now came to me instead of
insisting that I attend him.
Florentius arrived at sundown. I received him inside my tent,
alone. He saluted me with unusual ceremony. He was noticeably
changed. There was no ironic reference to my Spartan quarters. He
was plainly nervous. But why ?
We sat in folding chairs near the opening of the tent through
which came the golden light of a summer evening. Birds sang.
The noise of the army about us was constant but soothing. In the
distance one could see, just above the green of woods, the grey
walls of Bingen. Florentius began the dialogue. "You know,
Caesar, that Persia is now in arms against us."
I said that I knew only what was common knowledge, that an
embassy Constantius had sent to Sapor had failed.
"I'm afraid it's worse than that." Her nervous gaze flitted here
and there like a bird searching for a branch to light on. His hands
trembled. "Several months ago Sapor marched on Mesopotamia.
He laid siege to Areida."
I was surprised, not so much that Sapor had attacked us as I was
that the news had been kept from me. Ordinarily not a head can
fall in the empire that word of it does not circulate thousands of
miles in an instant, like the wind - no, swifter, like the sun's rays.
No one knows how it is that news travels faster than men and
horses, but it does. Yet this news had not. I said as much.
[219]


Florentius gestured. "The Augustus," he said. "He has kept the
matter as secret as possible. You know how he is."
It was part of Florentius's task in dealing with me to make subtly
derogatory remarks about Constantius, hoping to lure me into
expressing treasonable sentiments. But I never fell into this trap,
and he knew that I never would; yet we continued to play the
familiar game, rather like those old men one sees in the villages
who sit hour after hour, year after year, playing draughts with
one another, making the same moves and countermoves to the
end of their lives.
I was puzzled. "Why would he want to keep the matter secret?"
"Because, Caesar, it is a disaster." Florentius withdrew his purse
of doeskin and fingered his gold. "Amida has been destroyed."
I could not have been more affected if he had said that Antioch
or even Constantinople had fallen to the barbarians. Amida was the
most important of our border cities, and supposedly impregnable.
"The city was besieged for twenty-three days. I have a full
account for you, if you want to study it. There were seven legions
inside the city walls. Those troops, plus the inhabitants, meant
that one hundred and twenty thousand people were crowded in a
single small space. They suffered from plague, hunger, thirst. Sapor
himself fought in the first ranks. Fortunately, we fought better,
and Sapor lost thirty thousand men."
"But we lost Amida ?"
"Yes, Caesar."
"What now ?"
"The Augustus plans to move to Antioch for the winter. Next
spring he will launch a major offensive against Persia. He has sworn
to recover Amida.""And Sapor ?"
"He has withdrawn to Ctesiphon to prepare . . . who knows
for what ?"
We sat in silence as the light fell behind the trees. The warm air
was full of the smell of cooking. Men laughed. Metal struck metal.
Horses whinnied; a soldier's dog barked. I thought of Amida,
destroyed.
"Naturally, the Augustus will want all the troops he can muster."
I said this first, knowing that was why Florentius had come to
see me.
"Yes, Caesar."
"Has he specified what he will want from me ?"

[220]



"No, Caesar. Not yet."
"I have, all told, twenty-three thousand men, as you know."
"Yes, Caesar. I know."
"Most of my men are Gallic volunteers. They joined me on con-
dition that they fight only in Gaul for the protection of their own
country."
"I am aware of that, Caesar. But they are also Roman soldiers.
They have taken the oath of allegiance to the Emperor. They must
obey him."
"Even so, I cannot guarantee how they will act if the word I
gave them should be broken."
"Let that be my responsibility, Caesar." Florentius put away the
purse.
"Nothing in Gaul can be done without me, Prefect. A//responsi-
bility is mine." I let that hard statement fall between us like a slab
of marble dropping into place.
"Such is the will of Caesar," said Florentius politely, with only
the slightest trace of his usual irony. We both rose. At the opening
to the tent, he paused. "Might I see the agent Gaudentius ?"
"Haven't you already talked to him ?" I was as bland as he. "But
of course you may. Ask my chamberlain. He'll know where to
find him. I'm sure you will find Gaudentius in excellent health, and
informative, as always."
Florentius saluted me. Then he disappeared into the twilight. I
sat alone for a long time. It was my duty to let Constantius have
whatever troops he wanted; yet if I sent the Gauls to Asia I would
have broken my word to them. I would also be fatally weakened
as a commander. What to do ?
In the next few days, every detail of the fall of Amida was known
to the army. We also learned that Constantius had dispatched Paul
"the chain" to the Orient to conduct treason trials. It was Con-
stantius's inevitable reaction. Any defeat must be the work of
traitors. For a season, Paul wreaked havoc in Asia, and many blame-
less men were exiled or executed.
The remainder of that summer I spent on the Rhine, treating
with the German kings, sometimes severely, sometimes generously.
The Germans are innately treacherous, and their word means
nothing. They are unfathomable. If we had taken their forest-
country away from them, I might understand their constant
duplicity: love for one's own land is common to all, even to bar-
barians. But it was not their land and cities we took from them,

[221]


but our own, held by us for centuries and ravaged by them. Yet
whenever a treaty could be broken, they would break it. When-
ever any dishonourable thing might be done, it was done.
Why are the Germans like this ? I don't know. They are difficult
to understand, even those who have been educated by us (ever
since Julius Caesar we have taken kings' sons as hostages and
civilized them, but to no avail). They are wild by nature. They love
fighting as much as Greeks and Romans hate it.
To govern at all, it was necessary for me to obtain a reputation
for strictness. I achieved it. I executed kings who broke their word.
I crossed the Rhine whenever I chose. I was hard. I was just. Slowly
it dawned upon the Germans that I meant to keep them to their
side of the Rhine and that any man who chose to rise against me
would be struck down. When I left Gaul, the province was at
peace.

[222]


XIII

My third and last winter at Paris was crucial. I had heard nothing
from Constantius directly or indirectly since the meeting with
Florentius. The prefect preferred to stay at Vienne while I remained
at Paris. We did not meet, though documents continually passed
between us. Aware that there might soon be a crisis in our affairs,
I proposed at one point that Florentius join me for the winter at
Paris. But he declined. Obviously he wanted to keep what authority
he could. In principle I was the master of Britain, Gaul, Spain and
Morocco. In fact Florentius administered that part of Gaul which
is south of Vienne, as well as Spain and Morocco. I controlled
Britain. For the time being, we had tacitly agreed not to interfere
in each other's territories.
Helena's health grew worse, and when the cold weather came,
she took to her bed. The pains increased. I sent for Oribasius. He
was not hopeful. "I'm afraid the best I can do is keep her out of
pain. She has a turnout of the stomach. There is nothing to be
done." And he told me of a new herb he had discovered which
causes the flesh to lose sensation.
Oribasius was a comforting companion. So was Priscus, though
he kept threatening to go home. His wife Hippia had sent him
several angry letters, and he longed for Athens, though he denied
it. Priscus always likes to appear more unfeeling than he actually
is. Eutherius was a constant source of intelligence. But except for
these three friends, I was quite isolated. My chief of staff Lupicinus,
who had replaced Sallust, was arrogant and ignorant, while Sintula,
the cavalry commander, was hardly company. Nevitta, that splen-
did officer, I kept at Cologne, to guard the Rhine.
Rather desperately, I wrote letters to old friends, inviting them
to Paris. To those who liked to hunt I promised whole packs of
deer and a clement season. To philosophers I praised the delights
of Parisian intellectual life, though there was none except for the
Galilean bishop and his entourage, from whom I kept my distance.
But no one came. Even Maximus was unable to make the journey,
though he wrote me often, in a code of his own devising.
At about this time, November or December, I had a prophetic
dream. In the third watch of the night I fell asleep, tired from
[223]


dictating the notes which later became my commentary on the
Battle of Strasbourg. As often happens when I have something
specific on my mind, I dreamed first of the battle. Then the battle
vanished, as things do in dreams, and I found myself in a large
room at the centre of which grew a tall tree; at the time this
seemed perfectly natural. But then the tree fell to the floor, and I
noticed that a smaller tree was growing among its roots, and that
the smaller tree had not been uprooted by its parent's fall. "The
tree is dead," I heard myself say. "And now the smaller one will
die, too." And I was filled with a pity all out of proportion to the
event. Suddenly I was aware of a man beside me. He took my arm.
But though I could not make out his face, he did not seem strange.
"Don't despair." He pointed. "See ? The small tree's root is in the
ground. As long as it is there, it will grow, even more securely than
before."
Then the dream ended, and I knew that I had spoken to my
patron deity, Hermes.
When I told Oribasius of this, he interpreted it as meaning that
Constantius would fall while I would flourish, my roots in the All-
Seeing One. Needless to say, we kept this dream a secret. Men
were regularly executed for innocent dreams and mine was hardly
innocent. It was prophecy.

In December our quiet court was interrupted by the news that
the Picts and Scots who inhabit the north of Britain were menacing
the border. Our governor begged for reinforcements. I was in a
quandary. I had few enough troops as it was and I knew that my
chances of keeping even those were slim for it was everywhere
rumoured that the Caesar at Gaul was to be stripped of his army
the day Constantius took the field against Persia. But Britain was of
great economic importance to us. Since so many Gallic farms had
been ravaged by the Germans; we were forced that year to rely on
British grain to feed the people.
I took counsel and it was decided that Lupicinus must go immedi-
ately to Britain. He was a good commander, though we used often
to wonder whether he was more covetous than cruel, or more
cruel than covetous.
On the day that Lupicinus arrived in Britain, the tribune
Decentius, an imperial state secretary, arrived at Paris with a con-
sidefaNe retinue of lawyers and fiscal agents. Before coming to me,

[224]



he had spent several days in Vienne with Florentius. I did not take
this well, since it is usual to pay homage first to the Caesar.
Decentius was an exhausted man when he arrived. So I allowed
him to sit while he read me the Emperor's letter. The tone was
friendly, but it was absolute in its demands. I was to send Con-
stantius the Aeruli, the Batavians, the Celts and the Petulantes - the
best of my legions - as well as three hundred men from each of the
remaining legions. They were to start for Antioch without delay,
in time for a spring offensive against Persia.
When Decentius finished, I said as calmly as I could, "He wants
slightly more than half my army."
"Yes, Caesar. It will be a difficult war in Persia. Perhaps a decisive
one."
"Has the Emperor considered the effect this will have upon the
Germans ? My army is small enough to begin with. If I am allowed
less than twelve thousand soldiers-and those the worst-the
German tribes are sure to rise again."
"But the Augustus was led to understand by your own reports
that Gaul has been pacified for a generation, because of your great
victories." I wondered whether Decentius had thought of this on
the spur of the moment or whether Constantius had instructed him
ever so gently to prick me.
"No province is ever entirely pacified. As long as there is a
German alive, we are in danger."
"But no immediate danger, Caesar. You would agree to that 7"
"No, Tribune, I would not. Also, at this moment, there is serious
trouble in Britain."
"There are always troubles, Caesar. Nevertheless, in the prosecu-
tion of the war against Persia, the Augustus feels he must have the
best of all his armies with him. He feels . . ."
"Is he aware of the vow I made the Gallic soldiers: that they
were not to fight outside the province ?"
"Your vow to them is superseded by the oath they took to the
Augustus." This was stated with a sharp legality.
"True, but I must warn you, Tribune, there is a chance of
mutiny."
He looked at me intently. I knew what he was thinking. Will
this supposedly unambitious Caesar now see his chance to stage a
mutiny and usurp the West ? Courtiers never take things at face
value. When I said the troops might mutiny, he took this as a
threat that I would, if provoked, incite them to revolt.
[225]


"I am," I said carefully, "loyal to Constantius. I shall do as I am
told. I merely warn you that there may be trouble. Meanwhile,
we must wait at least a month before the troops can be sent to the
East."
"Augustus has said immediately . . ." Decentius began.
I interrupted. "Tribune, as we sit here, the legions he asked for
are now at sea, bound for Britain." And I told him about Lupicinus.
But then to demonstrate my good faith, I allowed him to listen as
I dictated a letter to Lupicinus ordering him back from Britain.
This done I sent Decentius to Sintula and gave orders that the
Tribune was to be obeyed in every way. By the end of the week,
some of my best soldiers had departed for Antioch. The subtle
Decentius must have promised them various bounties, for they left
in better humour than I thought possible.
Now there are those who believe that at this point I planned to
disobey Constantius and set myself up as the Augustus of the West.
This is not true. I will not deny that I did not think of it as a possi-
bility - it would have been impossible not to. After all, through my
efforts, the Rhine was secure and I governed a third of the world.
Even so, I was not eager to break with Constantius. He was stronger
than I. It was as simple as that. Also, I had no desire to challenge
my cousin in that one field where he was pre-eminent: keeping his
throne.
But I was considerably shaken when Decentius insisted that I
order all the remaining troops in Gaul to come to Paris so that he
might choose the best for the Persian campaign. We argued several
days about this. Not until I threatened to abdicate did Decentius
agree to maintain the Rhine garrisons at full strength. I then ordered
the army of Gaul to converge on Paris. All obeyed me, except
Lupicinus, who wrote to say that he could not possibly return to
Paris before April. Decentius complained bitterly, but there was
nothing to be done.
By the second week in February when the legions were encamped
on both sides of the riverj Decentius dropped his courtly mask. He
no longer wheedled; he ordered. Eutherius was with me when the
Tribune finally pounded the table and shouted, "If you won't speak
to the legions, I will, in Constantius's name!" I told him mildly
that there was no need for him either to shout at me or to do my
work. I then dismissed him. Eutherius and I were left alone in
the council chamber. We looked at one another; he concerned, I
wretched.

[226]


"Well, old friend," I said at last, "what do I do?"
"As you are told. Unless . . ." He paused.
I shook my head. "No, I won't go into rebellion."
"Then tell the men that you have been ordered to send them
east. The rest," he said this slowly, with emphasis, "is up to
them."
The next day was ~2 February. I was up at daybreak. I gave
orders to my household that a dinner be prepared for all officers
that evening. It was to be a sumptuous affair. I ordered the best
wine from the palace cellars. All sorts of fowl and livestock were
to be prepared. Though I pride myself on the austerity of my table,
this time I chose to be lavish.
I then set out to make the rounds of the army, accompanied only
by my standard-bearer. Our breaths were frosty as we clattered
across the wooden bridge to the left hank. Slowly I made my way
through the camp. I spoke to the men, singly, in groups. It was
good-humoured talk, and I soon had an idea of their mood. They
were well-disposed towards me, and suspicious of Constantius.
There are no secrets in an army.
When I came to the encampment of the Petulantes, my own
favourite among the legions, I paused to talk to a large group. We
chatted lightly but guardedly. Finally, one of them stepped for-
ward, with a letter in his hand. He saluted me. "Caesar, none of us
can read." There was some laughter at this broad deception. Well
over half the Petulantes are reasonably literate. "When we got
here, we found this on the door to the church." He pointed to a
nearby charnel house, a temple of Vesta converted by Galileans.
"Read it to us, Caesar."
"If I can," I said amiably. "It's Latin, and I'm only an Asiatic, a
Greekling . . ." Mention of two of the pleasanter nicknames they
have for me made them laugh. The letter was in soldier-Latin. I
started to read. "Men of the Petulantes, we are about to be sent to
the ends of the earth like criminals . . ." I stopped, blinded for a
moment by the pale sun to which I had turned almost instinctively,
as though for guidance. The men shouted grimly, "Go on, Caesar !"
They already knew the contents of the anonymous letter. I shook
my head and said firmly, "This is treason against the Emperor."
I threw the letter to the ground and wheeled my horse about.
"But not against you !" shouted the man who had given me the
letter. I spurred my horse and with the standard-bearer lagging
behind, I galloped back to the island. To this day I do not know

[227]


who wrote the letter; naturally, I have been accused of having
written it myself.
Shortly after noon the officers arrived at the palace. I received
them in the great banqueting hall which had been made to look
quite festive on such short notice. Evergreen boughs festooned '
walls and rafters while coal-burning braziers cut the chill. It was
the most costly banquet of my career thus far. Helena was too
ill to join us, so I did the honours alone. Decentius sat on my
right, watching me carefully. But I neither said nor did anything
remarkable.
When the officers had begun to grow boisterous with wine,
Decentius said, "Now is the time to tell them that they must leave
within the week."
I made one last attempt, "Tribune, in April the legions from
Britain will be here. If we wait until then . . ."
"Caesar," Decentius shifted from presumptuousness to guileful
reasonableness, "if you wait until then, people will say that the
British legions forced you to obey the Augustus, but if you carry
out your orders now, they will say it was of your own choice,
and that you are indeed master of Gaul, not to mention loyal to the
Augustus."
There was no doubting the truth of this. I felt the trap spring. I
surrendered. I agreed to make the announcement at the end of the
dinner. Did I have any secret design ? I think not. Yet at important
moments in one's life there is a tendency to do instinctively the
necessary thing to survive.
During the banquet, I was saluted repeatedly by minor officers,
in violation of etiquette. At one point~ Eutherius murmured in my
ear, "You have broken every rule governing Caesar's table." I
smiled wanly. This was an old joke between us. "Caesar's table"
was a euphemism for the restrictions put on me by Con-
stantius.
At the end of the dinner, I said a few words to the officers, who
were now in a mood for anything from riot to battle. I told them
that I had never known better troops. I told them that for the first
time in my life I envied Constantius, for he was about to receive
the world's best soldiers into his own army. There was muttering
at this, but no more. I was careful not to play too much on their
emotions. I chose not to provoke them.

Priscus: Yet.

[228]



Julian Augustus
After many tearful embraces, the banquet ended. I accompanied
the officers as far as the square in front of the palace. Just to the
right of the main door, there is a high stone tribunal from which
proclamations are read. I stood at the foot of it, while the officers
milled somewhat unsteadily about me. As I said good-bye to this
one and that one, I noticed that a large crowd had gathered in the
arcades which border the square on two sides. When the people
recognized me, they rushed forward. Quickly my guards drew
swords and made a ring about me. But the crowd was not hostile.
They were mostly women with children. They implored me not
to send their husbands away. One woman waved a baby in front
of me like a screaming flag. "Don't send his father away ! He's all
we have !"
Others shouted, "You promised us, Caesar! You promised!"
Unable to bear their cries, I turned away. At the door to the
palace, Decentius was deep in conversation with the secret agent
Gaudentius. They broke off guiltily when they saw me approach-
ing. "An old friend," said Decentius.
"I am certain of that," I said sharply. I motioned to the crowd.
"Do you hear them ?"
Decentius looked at me blankly for a moment. Then he looked
towards the square. "Oh, yes. Yes. That's quite usual in the
provinces. The women always complain when the men are ordered
away. When you have been in the army as long as I have, you
won't even notice them."
"I am afraid I find it hard not to notice. You see, I did promise
them . . ."
But Decentius had heard quite enough of my famous promise.
"My dear Caesar," he said, and his tone was that of a father, "these
women will each have found a new man by the time the warm
weather comes round. They are animals. Nothing more."
I left him in the square and went straight to my study on the
second floor. I sent for Priscus, Oribasius and Eutherius. While
waiting for them to arrive, I tried to read but I could not con-
centrate. I counted the tiles in the floor. I paced up and down.
Finally, I opened the window on the Seine and looked out. The
cold air was refreshing. My face burned as though I had the fever.
My hands trembled. I took deep breaths, and started to count the
blocks of broken ice as they floated downstream. I prayed to Helios.
Eutherius was the first to come. I shut the window. I motioned

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for him to sit in my chair. Because of his size no other chair would
hold him and he tended to break stools.
"It is a plot," he said. "Constantius has an army of nearly a
hundred thousand men in Syria. Your Gauls will hardly make
much difference."
"But they will to me, if I lose them."
"They will to you. And that is the plot. He wants you
destroyed."
I was surprised at Eutherius. Of all my friends and advisers he
was the one who invariably preached caution. He loved good
form, iustice, the orderly processes of the state at peace. He was
not made for treason. But he had changed."You believe this ?"
Eutherius nodded, the small black eyes glittered like the eyes of
an Egyptian statue.
"Then what shall I do ?"
At this point Oribasius and Priscus entered. They heard my ques-
tion. Oribasius answered for Eutherius. "Rebel," he said promptly.
That was, I swear by Helios, Mithras and my own Hermes, the
first treasonable word that had ever passed openly among us. There
was dead silence. Priscus sat on the edge of my heavy wood table.
Oribasius stood at the room's centre, staring intently at me. I turned
to Priscus.
"What do you think ?"
"You must consider everything. Can you remain in Gaul with-
out those troops? If you can, what is Constantius apt to do? Will
he remove you ? Or will he be too occupied in Persia to do anything
at all? I suspect," and Priscus answered his own question, "that
you have heard the last from Constantius for some time. He must
retake Areida and defeat Sapor. That may be his life's work. Mean-
while, you are master of the West and, should he die, emperor."
Eutherius nodded. "That is the sensible point of view, of Course."
He smiled. "Because it has been my own point of view all along.
Yet I think the situation is a good deal more serious than that. You
forget Florentius. My agents tell me that he is to be given full
authority in Gaul as soon as Caesar loses his army. When that
happens, there is nothing we can do but submit. Frankly, I think
it better to resist now than to wait and be destroyed by Florentius."
While they talked among themselves, I retreated again to the
window and watched the sun, a bitter winter orange, fall in the
west. Night fires blossomed on the river banks. What to do ? There

[25o]


was a sudden pounding at the door. Angrily, I opened it, declaring,
"No one is to disturb us . . ."
But there stood Decentius, pale and distressed. "A thousand
apologies, Caesar," he saluted hurriedly. "I should not have dis-
turbed you, but they are here !""Who is where 7"
"Can't you hear them ?" Decentius was chattering with fright.
We all fell silent and listened to the far-off sound of men shouting
and women wailing.
"Mutiny !" said Oribasius. He ran to the window and looked out.
Though one ordinarily sees only the river and the tip of the island
from my window, by craning one's head it is just possible to see
the wooden bridge to the north. "It's the Celtic Legion. They're
crossing to the island !"
As I joined him at the window, there was a shout from just below
us. "Caesar!" I looked down and saw a squad of infantry with
swords drawn. They waved to me cheerfully but their voices were
threatening. "Don't let us go, Caesar. Keep us here
One of the men, a tall fierce Celt with a blond moustache and a
blind white eye, thrust his sword towards me and in a voice hoarse
from many battles roared: "Hail, Augustus! Hail, Julian Augustus?
The others took up the cry. I stepped back from the window.
Decentius turned to me. "This is treason! Arrest those men!"
But I pushed him to one side and hurried to one of the rooms
which look out on the square. I peered through a crack in the
shutter. The square was filled with troops and they were by no
means all drunk, as I had first suspected. This was indeed rebellion.
In front of the palace, my personal guard stood with drawn
swords and levelled spears, but the mob seemed in no mood to do
violence. Instead, they shouted my name, demanded my presence,
declared their loyalty. Then, as if by signal - who knows how these
things suddenly start ? I suspect Hermes- they began to chant,
first one group, then another, then the entire crowd: "Augustus!
Augustus ! Julian Augustus !"I turned from the window.
"Attack them!" said Decentius. "Show them the Emperor's
image. They won't dare defy that."
"We have four hundred troops in the palace," I said. "There
are some twenty thousand men out there. Even an inexperienced
soldier like myself avoids such odds. As for the imperial image, I'm
afraid they will hack it to bits."


"Treason !" was all Decentius could say.
"Treason," I replied reasonably, as though identifying a partic-
ular star for one xCho wishes to know the nature of the heavens.
Decentius rushed from the room.
We looked at one another, the word "Augustus" falling regularly
on our ears like surf upon the beach.
"You will have to accept," said Eutherius.
"You who always preach caution tell me this ?"
Eutherius nodded. Oribasius was even more emphatic. "Go on.
You have nothing to lose now."
Priscus was cautious. "My interest, Caesar, is philosophy, not
politics. If I were you, I would wait."
"For what 7" Oribasius turned on him indignantly.
"To see what happens," said Priscus ambiguously. "To wait for
a sign."
I accepted this in the spirit Priscus meant it. He understood me.
He knew that unless I believed I had heaven's revealed blessing, I
could not act with full force.
"Very well," I motioned to the door. "Oribasius, see to the guard.
Make sure no one is admitted to the palace. Eutherius, keep an eye
on our friend the Tribune. Don't let him out of your sight. Priscus,
pray for me." On that we parted.
In the main corridor, one of my wife's ladies was waiting
for me. She was close to hysteria. "Caesar, they're going to
kill us, all of us!" I took her by the shoulders and shook her till
her teeth chattered; in fact, she bit her lower lip, which had a
most calming effect. She then told me that my wife was asking
for me.
Helena's bedroom was dimly lit and unbearably warm. Her
illness made her crave heat. A heavy odour of incense and musk
filled the room, yet it could not disguise the sweet-sharp odour of
the dissolution of the flesh. I hated visiting Helena, and thought
myself contemptible for this aversion.
Helena lay in bed, a prayer book on the coverlet. Beside her
stood the bishop of Paris, a solemn charlatan who was her closest
friend and adviser. He saluted me. "I dare say that the Caesar will
want to speak to the Queen alone . . ."
"You have dared say it, Bishop. And it is true." The bishop with-
drew in a swirl of splendid robes, chanting loudly, as though we
were a congregation.
I sat beside the bed. Helena was pale and she had lost much

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weight. Her eyes had grown large, as eyes appear to do when the
face thins. She was a sickly yellow in the lamplight, and yet in a
way she looked more appealing in her illness than ever she did in
health. She no longer resembled the vigorous, hard-iawed Con-
stantine. She was a woman now, delicate and melancholy, and I
felt a sudden surge of feeling as I took her hand, hot with fever
and delicate as a dead bird's wing.
"I am sorry I was too ill for the reception . . ." she began.
I cut her off. "It was of no importance. How is the pain ?"
Her free hand touched her stomach reflexively. "Better," she
said, and lied. "Oribasius finds me a new herb every day. And I
take whatever he finds. I tell him he must make me his collaborator
when he writes his encyclopedia." I tried not to look at her
stomach, which curved large beneath the coverlet as though she
were in the last month of pregnancy. For a moment neither of us
spoke; then the silence was broken by the rhythmic chanting:
"Augustus!" She turned towards me.
"They have been shouting that for hours."
I nodded. "They are angry because the Emperor wants them to
fight in Persia."
"They call you Augustus." She looked at me very hard.
"They don't mean it."
"They do," she said flatly. "They want you for Emperor."
"I've refused to show myself to them. Anyway, now it's dark,
they'll soon get cold and bored and go away, and tomorrow they
will do as they're told. Sintula has already gone, you know. He left
yesterday with two legions." I talked fast, but she would not be
put off.
"Will you take what they have offered ?"
I paused, uncertain what to say. Finally, neutrally, "It would be
treason."
"Traitors who prevail are patriots. Usurpers who succeed are
divine emperors."
I still could not tell what she wanted me to do. "Emperors
are not made," I said at last, "by a few thousand troops in a small
provincial city."
"Why not ? After all, it is God's will that raises us up, as it is
God's will that . . . throws us down." She looked away and again
her hand strayed to the seat of her mortality. "Those few soldiers
are enough, if it is meant to be."
"What do you want me to do ?" For the first and only time I

[233]


asked her a direct question, as one person to another; and I did
wish to know her answer.
"Tonight ? I don't know. This may not be the moment. You must
judge that. But I do know that you are meant to be Emperor of
Rome."
Our eyes met and we studied one another as though the face of
each was new and unexplored. I responded with equal candour, "I
know it, too," I said. "I have had dreams. There have been signs."
"Then take it!" She said this with unexpected force.
"Now? An act of treason? Against your brother?"
"My brother and his wife killed our two children. My loyalty
has . . . shifted to my cousin, who is my husband." She smiled
on the word "shifted" but her great eyes were solemn.
"Curious," I said finally. "I always thought you preferred him
to me."
"I did, I did. Until that last visit to Rome. You know, he tried
to keep me there after the baby died. He said that there might be
difficulties for you in Gaul."
"But you came back."
"I came back."
"Leaving your beloved villa ?"
"Leaving that was hardest of all !" She smiled,
Then she indicated the window and the city beyond. "Now the
difficulties he promised have begun. You must decide very
soon."
"Yes." I rose.
"Decentius was here," she said suddenly.
I was startled. "When ?"
"Just before the reception for your officers. He wanted to know
if I would like to return to Rome. He said the Gallic legions would
escort me as far as Milan.""He is sly."
"Yes. I told him I chose to stay. He was disappointed." She
laughed softly. "Of course even if I wanted to go, I cannot travel
... again."
"Don't say that. One day we shall go to Rome together."
"I want that more than an)rthing," she said. "But be quick about
it..."
"I will be quick," I said. "I swear it."
I kissed her brow, holding my breath so as not to catch the scent
of death. She clutched at me suddenly with all her strength, as



though she were suffering a sharp spasm of pain. Then she let me
go. "What a pity I was so much older than you."
I did not answer. I grasped her hands in silence. Then I left.
The Bishop was in the anteroom with the ladies. "The Queen
is improved, don't you think, Caesar ?"
"Yes, I do." I was curt. I tried to get past him. But the Bishop
had more to say.
"She is of course concerned by that mob outside. We all are.
Most frightening. A terrible lapse of discipline. One hopes that the
Caesar will dismiss this rabble with stern words."
"The Caesar will do what the Caesar must." I pushed past him
into the main gallery. Servants rushed here and there, as though on
urgent business. The ushers kept to their posts, but even they had
lost their usual aplomb. All eyes were on me, wondering what I
would do. As I crossed to the room which overlooks the square, I
nearly stumbled over Gaudentius, lurking in the shadows. I was
pleased to see that he was frightened.
"Caesar! The Tribune Decentius asks for audience. He is in
the council chamber. They are all there. They want to know what
you intend to do. We are completely surrounded. No one can
escape . . ."
"Tell the Tribune I am going to bed. I shall be happy to see him
in the morning." Before the agent could recover himself, I was
halfway down the gallery to my own room. Outside my door
stood the chief usher. I told him I was not to be disturbed unless
there was an attack on the palace. I then went to my room and
bolted the door after me.
It was a long night. I read. I prayed. I thought. I have never
before nor since been so undecided. Everything seemed to me to
be premature; events were pushing me faster than I chose to go.
Yet would a moment like this come again? How often is an
emperor spontaneously made ? We all know of amNtious generals
who have staged "popular" coronations for themselves; yet these
seldom occur without the general's active collusion. I am sure that
Julius Caesar very carefully instructed his friend to offer him the
crown in punic, simply to see what the reaction might be. Now
that same crown had come to me, without my asking.
Still undecided, I slept. I dreamed and, as often happens, I found
in dreaming what I must do awake. I was seated in my consular
chair, quite alone, when a figure appeared to me, dressed as the
guardian spirit of the state, so often depicted in the old Republic.

[235]

-!


He spoke to me. "I have watched you for a long time, Julian. And
for a long time I have wished to raise you even higher than you
are now. But each time I have tried, I have been rebuffed. Now I
must warn you. If you turn me away again, when so many men's
voices are raised in agreement with me, I shall leave you as you
are. But remember this: if I go now, I shall never return."
I awakened in a cold sweat and leapt from my bed; my own
room was suddenly strange and menacing, as sometimes happens
when we have dreamed deeply. Was I awake or not ? I opened
the window; icy air restored me. The stars were fading. The east
was pale.
The mob was still gathered in the square. They had built bon-
fires. From time to time they chanted "Augustus !" I made up my
mind. I summoned my body-servant. He dressed me in the purple.
Then I went out into the gallery.
Apparently I was the only one who had slept that night. Men
and women still scurried through rooms and corridors, like mice
seeking holes. In the council chamber I found Decentius and most
of my advisers. As I entered, Eutherius was saying in his most
calming voice, "Everything rests now with the will of Caesar.
There is nothing we can do to affect that . . ."
"Precisely," I said. The room came to attention. Decentius,
haggard, needing a shave, crossed to me and declared: "Only you
can stop them! You must tell them to obey the Emperor. They
will listen to you."
"I intend to speak to them now." I smiled at Eutherius. "You
may all attend me on the tribunal . . . if you like."
Decentius seemed not to want this honour. But my friends did.
Together we went to the main door of the palace.
"Be prepared," I said, "for anything. And don't be startled by
anything I say." Then I motioned to the frightened guards to slip
the bolt and open the gate.
With a deep breath, I stepped out into the square. When the
mob saw me, they began to cheer. Quickly I climbed the steps to
the tribunal, my companions close behind me. Then my personal
guard, swords drawn, surrounded the tribunal. The mob drew
back. I waved for silence; it was a long time coming. When at last
I spoke, I was temperate.
"You are angry. You have reason to be. And I take your side in
this matter. What you want, I promise to get for you. But without
revolution. You prefer service in your native land to the dangers

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of a foreign country and a distant war. So be it. Go each of you to
his home and take with you my promise that none of you shall
serve beyond the Alps. I assume full responsibility for this decision.
I shall explain it to the Augustus, and I know that he will listen
to me, for he is reasonable and just."
With this speech, I dispatched my duty to Constantius. Honour
was satisfied. Now what would happen ? There was an instant of
silence, and then shouts of "Augustus!" began again; also, insults
to Constantius - and a few to me for weakness. The mob pushed
closer and closer to the platform. I remained absolutely still, look-
ing across the square to the place where day was coming, grey and
cold above the houses of the town.
Eutherius whispered in my ear. "You must accept. They'll kill
you if you don't." I made no answer. I waited. I knew what was
to come. I saw what was about to happen as clearly as I had seen
the spirit of Rome in my dream. In fact, that whole morning was
like a continuation of the night's dream.
First, my guards broke and scattered as the mob pushed against
the tribunal. One soldier climbed on to the back of another and
seized me by the arm. I made no effort to resist. Then- again as
in a dream but that pleasant sort of dream where one knows
one is dreaming and has no fear- I fell into the mob. Hands,
arms, shoulders broke my fall. All around me the deafening cry
"Augustus!" sounded; strong in my nostrils was the smell of
sweat and of garlic, as hard bodies forced me up from the ground
where I lay, lifted me up high above them all like a sacrifice to
the sun.
In full view of the mob, the fiercest of the men seized me.
"Accept!" he shouted, sword's point held to my heart. I looked
him in the face, saw red broken veins on the nose, smelled wine
on his breath; that one glance was like a lifetime's acquaintance.
Then in a matter-of-fact voice I said, "I accept."
The roar was tremendous. An infantryman's shield was placed
under me and I was borne around the square like a Gallic or a
German king. Thus was I made Augustus not by Romans nor
according to Roman custom, but by barbarians, and according to
their ritual.
I was returned to the tribunal. Then someone shouted that I
must wear the diadem. Now I did not possess a crown of any sort.
It would have been worth my life to have owned one. I told the
mob this.

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"Get one from your wife 1" shouted a cavalryman. The mob
laughed good-naturedly. Worried that my life's great moment
might turn unexpectedly into low foolery, I answered quickly,
"You don't want an emperor who wears a woman's jewels."
This went down well enough. Then a tall fellow named Marius,
standard-bearer to the Petulantes, clambered on to the platform.
He took from his neck the ring of metal which supports the chain
that holds the regimental eagle in its place. He jerked the circlet
free of the chain; then, holding the ring of metal high over my
head, he shouted: "Hail, Julian Augustus!" As the mob repeated
the phrase, Marius placed the battered circlet on my head.
The thing was done. I motioned for silence, and got it. "You
have this day made a solemn choice. I promise you that as long
as I live you shall not regret it." Then recalling the usual form in
these matters, I said, "To each man here today I give five gold
pieces and a pound of silver. May heaven bless this day, and what
we have together done."
Then I descended the steps of the tribunal two at a time and
darted into the palace.

[238]


]ulian Augustus
I went straight to my wife's room. She had already been told
what had happened. She was sitting up in bed, attended by several
women. Her hair had been combed and her sallow face was cruelly
mocked by rouge. The women withdrew."It is done," I said.
"Good." She held my hands and for a moment I felt strength in
her fingers. "Now there will be war."
I nodded. "But not immediately. I shall tell Constantius that this
was none of my doing, and it was not. If he is wise, he will accept
me as Augustus in the West."
"He won't." She let go my hands.
"I hope he does."
She was staring at me with eyes half shut (her vision had never
been good and to see things clearly she was forced to squint). At
last she murmured, "Julian Augustus."
I smiled. "By grace of a mob in the main square of a provincial
town."
"By the grace of God," she corrected me.
"I think so. I believe so."
She was suddenly practical. "While you were in the square, one
of my officers came to tell me there is a plot to murder you. Here.
In the palace."
I did not take this too seriously. "I am well guarded."
She shook her head. "I trust this man. He is my best officer." Like
all ladies of the imperial house, Helena not only had her own
servants and attendants but her own bodyguard.
"I shall look into it." I rose to go.
"Decentius is behind the plot."
"Naturally."
As I crossed to the door, she said in a loud voice, "Hail,
Augustus!" I turned and laughed, and said, "Hail, Augusta!"
Helena smiled. I had never seen her as happy as she was at that
moment.
Next I went to the council chamber, where all of my court was
assembled, including Decentius.


I came straight to the point. "You are all witnesses that I did
not in any way arouse the soldiers. Nor did I ask for this honour
they have done me - illegally." There was a murmur of disappoint-
ment in the chamber. Decentius began to look hopeful. I gave him
a friendly smile; I continued. "I shall report all of this to the
Augustus, describing exactly what happened, and I shall pledge
him, as always, my loyalty not only as a colleague but as a kins-
man." Everyone was now quite puzzled. Decentius stepped
forward.
"If that is... Caesar's decision." He was very bold to call me
"Caesar", but I respected his loyalty to his master. "Then Caesar
must discipline his own troops. He must do as the Augustus wants,
and send them to the East."
"My dear Tribune . . ." I sounded even to myself like the most
honey-tongued of lawyers. "I am willing to give my life for the
Emperor in any battle against barbarians. But I will not give it in
this way. I have no intention of being murdered by an army I have
devoted five years to training, an army which loves me perhaps
too much and their Emperor too little. No, I shall not take back
what they have given me." I suddenly recalled that I still wore the
metal circlet. I took it off and held it up. "A piece of military equip-
ment, no more." I let the circlet drop on the table in front of me.
"Nor do I have any intention of sending them East. For one thing,
Tribune, they will not go. No matter what I or anyone says."
"Then, Caesar, do you mean to go against the Augustus?"
Decentius was stony.
I shook my head. "I shall try to obey him. But that may not be
possible. We shall write Constantius today. But even better than
our writing will be your own description of what happened here
in Paris. I am sure that once you have explained to him our true
situation, he will be sympathetic." There was a murmur of
laughter.
"Very well, Caesar. Have I your permission to go?"
"You have it," I said.
Decentius saluted and left the chamber.
Then tired as I was, I called a meeting of the consistory. We
spent the morning dictating a long letter to Constantius. In brief, I
said that I had not incited the troops, that they had threatened me
with death if I did not take the title Augustus, that I had accepted
for fear they might select someone else, another Magnentius or
Silvanus. I then requested that the legions be kept in Gaul. I

[24o]


promised, however, to send Constantius all the Spanish horses he
needed (there had been some correspondence already on this sub-
ject), as well as a number of targeteers from the tribe of Laeti on
the Rhine: good soldiers, eager for war. ! requested that a new
praetorian prefect be appointed; the other officers of state would
be selected by me, as is usual. I ended with the hope that only
harmony prevail between us, and so on.
There was a good deal of discussion as to how I should style
myself. My own view prevailed. I signed the letter "Caesar", not
"Augustus".
Eutherius offered to take the letter himself to Constantinople.
Since he was my best advocate, I let him go.

The next few days were turmoil. Decentius left for Vienne.
Eutherius departed for Constantinople. I sent Gaudentius packing.
During this period, I did not show myself in public, nor wear the
diadem, nor style myself Augustus. This was a time for caution.
Though I had sent several messages to Florentius, I had heard
nothing from Vienne except conflicting rumours: Florentius
planned to take the field against me in the spring. Florentius had
been recalled. Florentius was withdrawing to Spain, to Britain, to
Morocco. In the absence of any word from the praetorian prefect
himself, I replaced every governor in Gaul with men of my own
choosing, and thus assured the loyalty of the cities.

?riscus: Julian skips that spring and summer. I suppose because
much of it is covered in his military history.
That spring, while we were at Paris, Constantius moved to
Caesarea. There he assembled an army for the campaign against
Persia. He was very good at assembling armies. His problem was
that he never quite knew what to do with an army once he'd got it
all together. He was joined at Caesarea first by Decentius, then by
Florentius who had fled to Gaul, leaving his family to shift for
themselves. To everyone's surprise, Julian later allowed the family
to join Florentius, transporting them at state expense. Julian was
determined to be merciful. He saw himself in the line of Marcus
Aurelius. Actually, he was greater than that self-consciously good
man. For one thing, he had a harder task than his predecessor.
Julian came at the end of a world, not at its zenith. That is
important, isn't it, Libanius, my fellow relic ? We are given our

[24I]


place in time as we are given our eyes: weak, strong, clear, squint-
ing, the thing is not ours to choose. Well, this has been a squint-
ing, wall-eyed time to be born in. Fortunately, when most eyes see
distortion as a matter of course, nothing bizarre is thought out of
the way, and only a clear vision is abnormal.
Poor Eutherius had a most difficult embassy. Everything went
wrong for him on the road. Because of his rank as chamberlain to
the Caesar he was necessarily accompanied at many stages by
other important officials. You know how it is when one travels at
state expense. It is marvellous of course because it costs nothing,
one gets the best horses, there is always a place to spend the night,
and brigands seldom assault guests of the state. But one must con-
tend with the highly placed bores (who are contending with us!).
There is always the general who recalls old battles. The bishop who
sputters at the thought of his colleagues' "heresies". The governor
who was honest and can prove it as he returns home with a retinue
of several hundred heavily burdened pack-horses.
Eutherius was taken over by officials. By now the world knew
what had happened, and Julian's chamberlain was wined and dined
so much en route that he lost many days' travel. Finally, braving
storms at sea and the snows of Illyricum, he crossed to Constanti-
nople only to learn that the Augustus was at Caesarea. So the
embassy wearily pressed on. The chamberlain was received in late
March.
Julian told me that Eutherius told him that he had never seen
Constantius in such a rage. He fully expected to be slaughtered
on the spot. But- luckily for Julian- Constantius was trapped.
Though his every instinct (and his political cunning was always
astute) told him that he must strike at Julian as soon as possible, he
could not because Sapor was in Mesopotamia. Constantius was
śorced to stay in Asia. So he dismissed Eutherius non-committally;
he also gave a letter to the tribune Leonas to be delivered to Julian
personally.
As luck would have it, the day Leonas arrived in Paris, Julian
was to take part in some sort of festival which was to be heavily
attended not only by the troops but by the Parisians. Now ,Julian
dearly loved showing off in front of a crowd, an unexpected trait
in a philosopher. Knowing pretty much what was in the letter,
Julian presented Leonas to the mob, telling them why he was in
Paris. Then, in front of thousands, Julian read the letter aloud from
beginning to end. When he came to the part where he was ordered


to remain in his rank as Caesar, the crowd roared back as though
rehearsed. "Augustus ! Julian Augustus !"
The next day Julian gave Leonas a letter for Constantius; I gather
it was conciliatory; among other things, he accepted Constantius's
appointment of the quaestor Nebridius as praetorian prefect, and
he signed himself "Caesar". One ought to have all his letters at
hand. I suppose they can be found in the archives at Constanti-
nople, although I am not sure what the current policy is as to his
papers. Some years ago when a student of mine-a Christian-
wanted to examine certain of Julian's state papers, he was not
allowed to see them. In fact, the chamberlain's office was most
suspicious, which is suspicious. But that was in Valens's time. May-
be things have changed. You will doubtless find out when you
edit these papers.
In June Julian took the field against those Franks who live near
Kellen; they were the last of the tribes to molest Gaul. Despite the
bad roads and thick forests that protected their home across the
Rhine, he defeated them easily. But I was not with him. Just before
he took to the field, I departed for Athens.
The day I was to leave, I went to say good-bye to Julian in his
study, a room always referred to by his friends as the Frigidarium.
I have never known a room to be so cold. But Julian seemed not to
mind it. And of course after he nearly suffocated that first winter,
he never heated the room properly again. In warm weather, how-
ever, it was pleasantly cool, and the last I saw of him at Paris was
on a fine June day. I found Oribasius also waiting outside the study
door.
"He has a bishop with him," said Oribasius.
"No doubt converting him."
"No doubt."
Then the door opened and a scowling, red-faced man sailed
past us.
Julian came to the door and pulled us inside. His eyes gleamed.
He had obviously been enjoying himself. "You should have heard
him !"
"What sort of bishop is he?" I asked. "Arian or Athanasian
or . . ."
"Political. That was Epictetus, bishop of Civitavecchia. His
interests, I suspect, are secular rather than religious. Constantius
sent him to me, with a most extraordinary message." Julian threw
himself on the military cot by the window. (Though he nowhere in


his memoir mentions it, he often dictated while lying down; after
reading some of his late-night essays, I used to accuse him of talk-
ing in his sleep. To which he would answer, "In sleep the gods
speak to us, so what I say in my sleep must be divine.")
"My colleague, the Augustus, proposes that if I step down as
Caesar, abandon the army of Gaul, return to Constantinople as a
private person, my life will be safe."
Both Oribasius and I laughed; but I was uneasy. "It's absurd, of
course," I said, "yet what is the alternative if you don't ?"
"The bishop was not specific. The implication is that sooner or
later Constantius will deal with me."
"Much later," said Oribasius. "He is having his difficulties in
Persia. It will be at least a year before he can march against us."
Julian shook his head. "I'm not sure." He swung his legs over
the cot and reached over to a near-by folding table on which lay
the usual sheaf of agents' reports. "All sorts of news." He tapped
the papers. "Here is an order we intercepted from Constantius to
the prefect of Italy: gather three million bushels of wheat, have
them ground at Bregentz- that's on Lake Constance-and store
the grain in several cities, all on the border of Gaul. Then here's
another order for wheat to be stored on the Italian side of the
Cottian Alps. He means to invade Gaul. There's no doubt of that."
"But when ?" Even though I was leaving and would soon be safe
(not being a hero, my constant interest is the preservation of my
own life), I did care what happened to my friend.
"Who knows ? We can only hope Sapor involves him in a major
campaign. Meanwhile, I have all that grain." He grinned like a boy.
"I've ordered it confiscated and held for my own use." He paused;
then: "All I need is a year."
"And after that ?" I looked at him closely, for Julian had never
before spoken of any time other than the immediate future. As
well as we all knew him, none of us had any idea of the extent of
his ambition, or the nature of his long-range plan.
He answered cautiously, again flat on his back, one hand tugging
at his youthful beard, which glinted gold as fox fur in the bright
June night. "In one year I shall be secure in Gaul, and in Italy."
Now it was out. To cross the Alps would indeed mean war.
"I have no choice," he said. "If I stay here, if I remain as I am,
he will have my head." He indicated the papers on the table.
"There is a report here that he is negotiating with the Scythians to
come into Gaul. Typical, of course. To destroy me he'll wreck

[2,~]



Gaul a second time, fill it again with savages and never regain it."
He sat up. "Next spring, my friends, I take the field against
Constantius."
All that I could think to say, finally, was, "He has ten times the
army you have. He controls Italy, Africa, Illyricum, Asia . . ."
"I know." Julian was unexpectedly calm. Ordinarily, such a con-
versation would have had him on his feet, arms waving, eyes flash-
ing, words tumbling over one another in his excitement. I think I
was more impressed by his unusual gravity than by what he said.
"But if we move swiftly, gathering strength as we go, I can take
all of Europe in three months."
"Then you must face the largest army on earth, at Con-
stantinople." Oribasius looked unhappy.
"I believe I shall win. Anyway, better to die at the head of an
army than perish here and be known to history as the fourth
usurper Constantius put down. Besides, this contest is between the
Gallleans and the true gods, and we shall win it because I was
chosen to win it." He said this so quietly, so lacking in his usual
exuberance that there was nothing left for us to say; sooner tell
the rain to stop on a spring morning in Gaul.
Then he was his old self. "So now Priscus deserts us! Just as the
battle lines are drawn, he retreats to Athens."
"Cowardice is my prevailing characteristic," I said.
"And uxoriousness," said Oribasius slyly. "Priscus longs for the
powerful arms of Hippia . . ."
"And the company of my children, who are now at an age to
embarrass me not only intellectually but financially."
"Will you need money 7" Julian, even at his poorest-and at
this point he was unable to pay his household expenses-was
always generous to friends. Maximus took him for a considerable
fortune . . . and Maximus was one of the reasons I was leaving
Gaul: he was rumouter to have accepted Julian's offer to join him
in the spring. I could not face that.
I told Julian I had all the money I needed. He then gave me his
personal medallion, or tessura, which allowed me to travel free of
charge anywhere in the West. We made a most warm farewell.
He seemed perfectly certain of his own victory, although in the
memoir he betrays an anxiety which one would never have
suspected from his behaviour, proving that our Julian had at last
grown up. For once he kept his own counsel.
Julian and Oribasius saw me off in the afternoon carriage which

[245]


left from the palace door for V~enne. As I got into the wagon with
its usual complement of bishops and secret agents, Julian whis-
pered in my ear, "We shall meet in Constantinople." That was the
last I saw of him until we did indeed meet in Constantinople, to
my surprise. I thought he would be dead before the autumn.

]ulian Augustus
I should here sum up what I did in Gaul during the four years I
was actively Caesar. Three times I crossed the Rhine. One thousand
persons who were held as captives on the farther bank I took back.
In two battles and one siege I captured ten thousand prisoners,
men in the prime of life. During those years, I sent Constantius four
levies of excellent infantry, three more of infantry (not so good),
and two very distinguished squadrons of cavalry. I recovered every
place held or besieged by the barbarians, some fifty towns.
After strengthening our defences as far as Augst, I proceeded
late in the summer to Vienne by way of Besanqon. All told, I spent
three months in the field that summer.
I had hoped to find Maximus at Besanqon. There was a rumour
that he was there, waiting for me. But though I had the agents look
everywhere, he was not to be found. I did have a curious experi-
ence in Besanqon while strolling about the city, quite alone, enjoy-
ing the sights. There is a fine view from the citadel, which is
situated on a high rock. The place is well protected, not only by
its eminence but by the River Doubs which circles it like a moat.
Besanqon is a small town now, but it was once an important city
and there are many abandoned temples, relics of a better time.
Standing in front of the ruined temple of Zeus, I saw a man dressed
as a Cynic. I was so positive that it was Maximus that I came up
behind him- as boys do, I'm afraid-and clapped him on the
shoulder to startle him. I succeeded. He turned about and to my
embarrassment it was not Maximus at all but a fellow I had once
met at Prohaeresius's house. Both of us blushed and stammered.
Then he saluted me, and said, "How great is Caesar to remember
the friend of his youth, a humble philosopher, a mere seeker of
truth . . ."
"Welcome to Gaul," I said, not letting on I had mistaken him
for another. "You must dine with me." And thus I attached to my
court for several months one of the most extraordinary bores I
have ever known. Oribasius teases me about it to this day. But
I never had the heart to dismiss the man, so he sat with us night

[2as6]


after night, ruining all conversation. Why do I find it difficult
simply to say, 'No!' Why am I so timid~ I envy the tyrants.
Also, why do I tell this story when it is my purpose to describe
only crucial events ~ Because I am reluctant to describe the state
of my own mind that winter at Vienne when, like Julius Caesar
before me, I decided to cross the Alps. I have always said that I
acted in self-defence, that I did not want to usurp the throne, that
I wanted only to be recognized by Constantius as legitimate
Augustus in the West. Yet I must say I find it impossible to describe
what I really felt. Only historians can ever be certain of
one's motives! Nevertheless, I do mean to record the truth, no
matter how painful or in what a bad light it puts me.
I entered Vienne about ~ October. I moved into the praetorian
prefect's palace. I now had a personal retinue of nearly
a thousand men and women, slaves and soldiers. Heaven knows
how these households expand, but they do, and they are ruinously
expensive even for emperors . . . even ? Especially for emperors !
I installed Nebridius, the new praetorian prefect, in my old villa
by the wall. He was a good enough fellow who wisely kept to
himself.
At this time I made an important decision. In all public places
it is the law that the image of the Emperor, either painted or in
the round, be displayed. Oaths are sworn to it. No legal decision
is binding unless made in the sight of his image. And so the
ubiquitous face of Constantius, with its soulful eyes and pinched
mouth, looked down on every official in the West, including me.
My first day in Vienne, I ordered that my own portrait, as Augustus,
be placed beside his. Now the two of us stared, side by side, at
litigants and lawyers. I am told that we were known as "man and
wife", since I looked the man with a beard and he, with his
jewellery and smooth face, seemed the woman.
I was bombarded all through the summer with letters from
Constantius. Why had I detained Lupicinus ? Why had I stolen
grain belonging to the prefecture of Italy ? Where were the troops
I had promised ? The horses ? Why did I style myself Augustus ? I
was ordered to report immediately to Constantius at Antioch. He
even prescribed the household I might bring with me: no more than
a hundred soldiers, five eunuchs . . . he delighted in making lists.
Yet to every denunciatory letter I made soft answer, always sign-
ing myself "Caesar".
While I was assembling the army of Gaul, Constantius was

[247]


having his difficulties with Arsaces, that most unreliable king of
Armenia, who was suspected of dealing with the Persians on the
sly. I have since read the secret transcript of the meeting between
Arsaces and Constantius. It was shocking. Arsaces got everything
he asked for in exchange for remaining as he ought to be in the
first place: loyal to us who support not only his throne but his
country's independence. Constantius was hopeless at negotiations.
To seal this '"reunion" (there is no word to describe holding an ally
to a course to which honour and treaty have already committed
him), Constantius gave Arsaces as wife the daughter of the old
praetorian prefect Ablabius. Her name is Olympia, and she was
once supposed to marry Constantius, which made her the nearest
thing he had to an unmarried female relation. She is now queen
of Armenia, a devout Galilean and hostile to me.
During this exchange between the Emperor and the Armenian,
there was much talk of me. It is a strange experience to read
literal transcripts of conversations in which one is discussed like
a character in an epic.
Arsaces brought up the subject: would Julian march against the
Emperor? Constantius thought it unlikely. If I did, at a signal
from him, the German tribes would attack me on the Rhine. Then,
should I survive them, Scythians would bar my way to the East,
not to mention the loyal armies of Italy and Illyricum.
Arsaces wanted to know if it was true that Julian's victories in
Gaul surpassed those of Julius Caesar. Constantius responded
angrily: "All that was done in Gaul was done by my generals,
acting on the orders of my praetorian prefect, who obeys me."
Constantius then went on to declare that he himself had achieved
every victory, despite my hopeless muddling. In fact, I was so
incompetent that Constantius was himself forced to take personal
command of the army in order to win the famous victory of
Strasbourg !
I must say I trembled with rage when I read those lines. Yes,
I am vain. There is nothing to be done about it. I want credit. I
want honour. I want fame. But I want only what is mine. I was
amazed at Constantius's boldness. How could he lie with such
recklessness ? Arsaces must have known that Constantius was on
the Danube becoming Sarmaticus Sarmaticus, while I was freeing
Gaul. I rather suspect that Arsaces did know the Emperor was
lying, for in the transcript he swiftly changed the subject.
I was particularly struck by one passage about myself (how
[248]



hungrily we read about ourselves !). Constantius said that I had
no gift for soldiering; I was a pedant who should have been left at
the University of Athens. Arsaces remarked that the pedant seemed
to have made a remarkable court of fellow pedants for himself at
Paris. He even named them. Constantius said that he approved of
the company I kept for schoolteachers would keep me so occupied
with books and idle dispute that I would not have time to ponder
treason. He offered to show Arsaces the "cringing" letter in which
I declared my loyalty to him, while rejecting the title "Augustus".
Arsaces said that he would indeed like copies, and they were pre-
pared. I wonder if Constantius showed him all the correspondence?
I still blush when I think of that Armenian reading my highly
politic and conciliatory (but hardly "cringing") letters.
Then Arsaces said, "I mention the men at Julian's court because
there is a rumour that they are all of them atheists." Surprisingly,
Constantius seemed not at all interested in this. He merely re-
marked that schoolteachers tend to be unreliable, dirty, greedy,
impious, beard-wearing . . . all of them Cynics, he said largely.
But Arsaces was obviously concerned; he hoped that Julian was
a true Galilean. Constantius said that he was certain I was but
that it made little difference, since after the Persian campaign I
would cease to exist. They then talked of other matters.
Constantius next proceeded south to Melitena, Locatena and
5amarath. He crossed the Euphrates and made for Edessa, a large
city of Mesopotamia, sixty miles west of the ruins of Amida, now
$apor's by right of conquest. Daily Constantius's army grew larger
and larger, but he did nothing with it. Finally, as autumn began, he
marched to Amida. In sight of the troops, he wept; not a particu-
larly helpful gesture in a war. That was the same day that Ursulus,
the Count of the Sacred Largesse, made his much-quoted remark,
"See how bravely our citizens are protected by those soldiers,
whose pay is bankrupting us !" This sardonic remark later cost him
his life. One sympathizes with treasurers, but one must honour
soldiers, especially those who fought at Amida against impossible
odds.
From Amida, Constantius crept some thirty miles south-east to
Begabde, a Persian town on the Tigris. He laid siege to the town,
but because of the ardour of the Persians and his own incom-
petence, Begabde withstood every sort of assault. Then came the
rainy season. Those who were there have since told me that the
thunder and lightning was appalling. Our men were demoralized

[2491


by what they took to be heaven's anger-and perhaps it was,
directed at Constantius. Also, there were innumerable rainbows,
which means that the goddess Iris has been sent down from heaven
to effect some important change in human affairs. Constantius
abandoned the siege and withdrew to Antioch for the winter.
Meanwhile, I was getting my own affairs in order at Vienne. I
sent for various wise men and prophets, including the Hierophant
of Greece. I consulted oracles and sacred books; I made sacrifices
to the gods . . . in secret, of course, for Vienne is a city domi-
nated by Galileans. All signs agreed that I would prevail and that
Constantius would fall. Yet I did not neglect the practical. Every
prophecy is always open to interpretation and if it turns out that
its meaning was other than what one thought, it is not the fault
of the gods but of us who have misinterpreted their signs. Cicero
has written well on this. I particularly credit dreams, agreeing
with Aristotle that important messages from heaven are often sent
to men as they sleep, though to dream meaningfully it is necessary
for the eyes beneath the lids to be turned neither to left nor right
but set straight ahead, often difficult to arrange.
At the end of October, during consistory, Oribasius sent me a
message. I must go straight to my wife. She was dying.
Eyes shut, Helena lay on her bed. She was emaciated except
for her stomach, which was grotesquely large beneath the coverlet.
Oribasius was at her side while the bishops of Vienne and Paris
chanted and prayed. I took Helena's hand, now cool, soon cold.
It is a grisly miracle when the soul leaves the body, taunting us
with the unimportance of that flesh which in life so entirely en-
slaves us, since it is us, or seems to be.
"Julian." She spoke in an ordinary voice.
I found I could say nothing, only murmur sounds of compassion.
Yet I suffered with her even though I hardly knew her. We were
royal animals, yoked by the same master to pull a golden carriage.
Now one animal had fallen between the traces.
"They tell me I am dying." Before I could give ritual comfort,
she said, "I don't mind. I'm not afraid. Only do remember that the
new wing on the east has only a temporary roof. There wasn't
time to have the right sort of tiles made. You know the ones I
mean. They are called, I think, Patrician tiles. Anyway, the steward
knows what to buy. The temporary ones will have to be replaced
before the spring rains. I have had estimates made of the cost. It
will be expensive, but we can take it out of my private account

[25o]


in Rome. The new mosaic work could be spoiled should there be
a great deal of rain, which there is apt to be this time of year in
Rome." With those words, Helena died, thinking of her beloved
villa in the Via Nomentana.
The bishops looked at me furiously as though I had in some way
spoiled their fun. Then they set to praying, very loud. I left the
room. In the outer hall I found Helena's women.
"The Queen is dead." I felt nothing. They began to wail.
"Prepare her," I said sternly, "and save your tears."
They went inside the bedroom. Oribasius put his hand on my
shoulder. I looked about me at all the things Helena had owned,
worn, touched.
"I don't know," I said at last, with wonder, "what I feel."
"You should feel relief. She suffered. Now it's over."
I nodded. "We are toys, and a divine child takes us up and puts
us down, and breaks us when he chooses."
$o my marriage ended. Helena's body was sent to Rome and
she is buried in the same mausoleum as her sister Constantia and
our son. I also remembered to give orders to replace the tiles in the
villa. Helena was forty-two when she died. I was twenty-eight.
The day after her death, I took the vow of celibacy, as an offering
to Cybele for her continued fayour.

[25x]


XV

On 6 November 360, I celebrated my fifth year as Caesar, my
"quinquennial", as the Romans call it.
I thought it wise to make a great event of this occasion. It is
well known that I detest what goes on in hippodromes, whether
games, fighting or the slaughter of animals. But there are certain
things one must do in a high place and the giving of games is one
of the most important. If the games are a success, one enjoys popu-
larity with the mob. If not, not. It's as simple as that. Though I
have many times cursed those consuls of the old Republic who
started this boring and costly business, I always do what is expected
of me as well as I can with the means at hand.
I am told that the games at Vienne were a success. I cannot
judge. I attended them as little as possible. But when I did appear,
it was as Augustus. I wore a heavy gold crown which I am now
quite used to, justifying it to myself as a symbol of the sun, which
is God. I looked quite imperial that year. Even Oribasius was
satisfied; he could never endure the old purple fillet I usually
wore in public. "You look like a gymnasium director," he would
complain.
Constantius and I exchanged polite letters on the death of Helena.
Then in December I received the announcement that Constantius
had married a lady of Antioch called Faustina. I sent him congratu-
lations. Meanwhile, each of us prepared for civil war.
A number of significant things happened in December. One
afternoon while I was practising with shield and sword (I do this
nearly every day, because I came late to soldiering and must work
harder than most to toughen muscles and learn the subtleties of
combat), my shield broke loose from both the handle and the
strap, and fell to the ground with a crash in full view of the Petu-
lantes with whom I took exercise. Before anyone could interpret
this as an ill omen, I said loudly, "Look !" And ! held up the handle
which I still clutched. "I have what I was holding!" This was
taken to mean that I would hold Gaul, no matter what happened.
But I was puzzled until that night when I dreamt that I saw again
the guardian deity of Rome. He came to my bedside, and he spoke
very plainly, in verse:

[252]


When Zeus the noble Aquarius shall reach
When Saturn come to Virgo's twenty. fifth degree,
Then shall Constantius, K. of Asia, of this life so sweet,
The en8 attain with heaviness and grief.

This was as clear a statement as one could hope for from the
gods. The next morning I told Oribasius, and he in turn called in
Mastara, the best of the Etruscan astrologers. He cast Constantius's
horoscope and found that the Emperor would indeed be dead
within a few months. He even set the date as some time in June
36~. But in spite of this celestial assurance, I took no chances. I
continued to prepare for war.

I liked the praetorian prefect, Nebridius, though he did not like
me, for the very reason I liked him: he was faithful to his master
and I honoured him for that. Yet despite his loyalty to Constantius,
he did not conspire against me. Because of this, I allowed him to
carry out the ceremonial functions of praetorian prefect, though
nothing more. Yet despite our cordial relations, he was always
on the lookout for ways to trap me. He devised an excellent
embarrassment.
On 6 January, the Gallleans celebrate something called the feast
of the Epiphany. It is the day the Galilean is supposed to have
been baptized. Suspecting my dislike of the Galileans, Nebridius
announced to the city that I would attend the feast of the Epiphany
at the Vienne charnel house, a brand-new basilica paid for by
Helena's numerous gifts to the bishops. I was furious but dared
not show it. I am sorry to say Oribasius was amused at my predica-
ment.
Grimly, I did what I had to do. I spent two hours meditating
on the thighbone of some villain who had been eaten by lions at
Rome, while the bishop delivered a considerable sermon at me,
praying that I would throw the weight of my majesty against
the enemy Arians. He even turned political by suggesting that as
Constantius was Arian and I possibly Athanasian, the line might
then be drawn between us in all things, and the side of "truth"
(also the side of the majority, he added pointedly) would prevail,.
supporting my throne like columns, I believe was his metaphor, or
it may have been holy caryatids. When it came time to pray, my
words were addressed to the Galilean but my heart spoke to Zeus.


The winter was a time of waiting. I was now ready to march.
All that I needed was a sign from heaven. Though the prefect at
Rome would not allow my emissaries to consult the Sibylline
books, a friendly priest of the old order was able to look at a part
of that book which describes our period. According to his secret
report, I would indeed be the next emperor. My reign would be
stormy but long. That is all I ask for: time. Time to make an old
world young again, to make winter spring, to free the One God
from the triple monster of the atheists. Give me twenty years, O
Helios, and I will fill the earth with praise for your light, and
illuminate the dark windings of Hades' kingdom! Even as Perse-
phone returned to Demeter, so shall our time's living-dead return
to your arms, which are light, which is life, which is all !
In April I learned that the German tribe of King Vadomar had
crossed the Rhine and was devastating the area near Raetia. This
was particularly puzzling news because two years before we had
negotiated a "final" peace with Vadomar. He had no grievance
against us. He was a cultivated man, educated at Milan. He was
by nature cautious. To any show of force he always responded
with a thousand apologies and a quick withdrawal to his own side
of the river. That Vadomar was now actively in the field against me
could mean only one thing. He was acting on Constantius's orders.
I sent Vadomar one of my counts, a man called Libino. He was
a good soldier and negotiator, or so I thought. I sent him with half
a legion and orders to reason with Vadomar. Should reason fail,
threats of extinction were in order. Libino got as far as Sechingen
on the Rhine. There the Germans surrounded him. Unfortunately,
Libino was eager for battle, even though his mission was only to
negotiate. Like a fool, he ordered his men to attack. Five minutes
later, Libino himself was hacked in two by a German sword, and
his men, outnumbered five to one, were massacred.
I then dispatched the Petulantes to the Rhine only to find that
the savages had faded into their forests, as mysteriously as they
had appeared. For the moment all was peaceful on the Rhine.
Now ordinarily I would have taken this for what it seemed to be: a
single raid by restless tribesmen, conducted without the knowledge
of Vadomar, who all the while was writing me long and eloquent
letters, offering to punish his own people, if of course the guilty
ones were his. He even sent a gift of money to the family of the
dead Libino.
I did not believe Vadomar, but I was willing to forget the matter

[254]


until one of the border guards intercepted a German messenger
bound for the East. The messenger was found to be carrying a
letter from Vadomar to Constantius. I quote from it: "Your will is
being done, Lord, and your Caesar who lacks discipline will be
chastened." That was all [ needed. I promptly sent one of my
notaries, a clever chap named Philogius, to join the Petulantes who
were still at Sechingen, close to the country of Vadomar.

Libanius: I feel compelled to note that this same "clever chap named
Philogius" has just been appointed Count of the East by Theodosius.
He is a dedicated Christian and no one knows how we shall fare
under his rule. If only Julian had sent him instead of the long-
forgotten Libino to that fatal rendezvous on the Rhine! But then,
were it not he, fate would no doubt find us a worse Philogius. The
Count arrived in Antioch early this month. I saw him for the first
time yesterday in the senate. He moved amongst us like a swan
who has found himself in a particularly small and distasteful
pond. Do I dare mention Julian to him ?

]ulian Augustus
I gave Philogius sealed instructions. If he encountered Vadomar
on our side of the Rhine, he was to open the letter and do as he was
told. Otherwise, the letter was to be destroyed. I was fairly certain
that he would see Vadomar, who often travelled in our territory,
visiting Roman friends. U~ke so many German nobles, he was in
some ways more Roman than the Romans.
Philogius met Vadomar at a reception given by a local con-
tractor. Philogius invited the king to dinner the next day at the
officers' mess of the Petulantes. Vadomar said that he would be
delighted to dine with such distinguished men. When he arrived
for dinner, Philogius excused himself, saying that he had forgotten
to give certain instructions to the cook. He then read my letter.
In it I commanded him to arrest Vadomar for high treason.
Philogius did so, to the astonishment of his guest.
A week later, Vadomar was brought to me at Vienne. I received
him alone in my study. He is a handsome, blue-eyed man, with a
face red from hard drink and cold winters. But his manners are as
polished as any Roman courtier's. He speaks excellent Greek. He
was very frightened.
"You have made a bad choice, King," I said.
[2ss]


He stammered: he did not know what I meant. I gave him the
letter we had intercepted. The red face became blotchy.
"I did as I was told, Augustus . . ."
"In the letter you call me Caesar."
"No, no, Augustus. That is, I had to when I wrote to him. He'd
ordered me to attack you. What could I do ?"
"You might have honoured your treaty with me. Or you might
have made a better choice, as I suggested originally. You might
have chosen me instead of Constantius as your master."
"But I do, great Lord. I do now! I always have. Only . . ."
"Don't!" I stopped him with a gesture. I take no pleasure in
seeing another man grovel before me. "Actually, you- and your
correspondence - have been very useful to me." I took the letter
back from him. "I now have proof that not only does Constantius
mean to destroy me, he incites the barbarians against his own
people. Now I know what to do, and how to do it."
"But what will you do, Augustus ?" Vadomar was momentarily
distracted from his own fate.
"Do? I shall exile you to Spain." He fell on his face in gratitude,
and it was with difficulty that I extracted myself from his embrace,
and turned him over to the guards.
I sent for Oribasius. I have never been so elated in my life.
"We're ready!" I shouted when he joined me. "Everything is
ready !" I don't recall now what else I said. I suppose I "babbled",
as Priscus calls my talk during seizures of enthusiasm. I do remem-
ber that Oribasius, always the most conservative of advisers, agreed
entirely with me. It was now or never. There remained only one
possible obstacle, the mood of the legions. Some were still adamant
about leaving Gaul.
Together we studied the military roster. Those units prone to
mutiny we sent as permanent garrisons to the farther cities of
Gaul. The remainder would assemble at full strength on 25 June,
when it would be my task to rouse them for the war against Con-
stantius. Never was an orator given greater challenge. I rehearsed
my speech every day for three weeks. Oribasius coached me until
he too knew every word by heart.
At dawn on the 25th, Oribasius and I met with several officers
of like mind in a small chapel off the council chamber. There I
made special offering to Bellona, goddess of battles. The omens
were propitious. Then, nervous at the thought of the speech ahead,
I went forth in full regalia to review the legions who were gathered

['.56]



in a field outside the city, just beyond the gate through which I
had arrived in Vienne five years before, a green boy with a handful
of troops who knew only how to pray. I thought of this as I made
my way to the stone tribunal, my neck rigid beneath its burden
of gold.
I do not have a copy of this speech with me. In fact, my chief
secretary seems to have packed none of my personal files though
I especially asked that they be brought with us, knowing that I
would be composing this memoir in Persia. Nevertheless, I recall
most of what I said, even down to the gestures which I find myself
reproducing as I repeat the words I said two years ago. I will not
weary the reader with a catalogue of gestures, nor every word of
the peroration. I will only say that I was at my best.
First, I addressed the army as "Noble soldiers". This is an un-
usual way to style an army, and it caused much comment. Yet
I wanted to emphasize to them their importance to me and my
respect for them. I spoke of all that we had done together against
the Germans and the Franks. "But now that I am Augustus, I
shall, with your support and that of the Deity- should fortune
honour us- aim at greater things. To forestall those in the East
who wish us ill, I propose that while the garrisons of Illyricum are
still small, we take possession of all Dacia and then decide what
more must be done. In support of this plan, I want, under oath,
your promise of a lasting and faithful accord. For my l~art, I will
do all that I can to avoid both weakness and timidity. I also swear
that I will undertake nothing that does not contribute to us all.
I only beg you: do nothing to hurt private citizens, for we are
known to the world not only as the victors of the Rhine but as men
whose right conduct in victory has made half a world prosperous
and free."
There was more in this vein. At the end, by various cries and
loud oaths, they swore that they would follow me to the end of the
earth, something of an exaggeration since their immediate interest
was the spoils to be got as the result of what they knew would be
an easy campaign in Dacia.
When I asked them to swear the oath of allegiance to me as
Augustus, they did so, swords to their throats. Then I turned to
the officers and officials gathered about the stone tribunal:
"Will you, too, swear allegiance to me, in God's name Y' I asked
according to ritual. All swore, except Nebridius. There was a
menacing growl from the troops.


"You will not swear allegiance to me, Prefect ?"
"No, Caesar. I have already sworn an oath to uphold the
Emperor. Since he still lives, I cannot swear again without
jeopardizing my soul." His voice trembled, but not his will.
Only I heard his whole speech, for on the word "Caesar" the
men roared their anger. Swords were drawn. A legionnaire grabbed
Nebridius by the neck and was about to throw him in the dust
when I quickly stepped down from the tribunal and put myself
between the soldier and the prefect. Nebridius, pale as death,
clung to my knees. I removed my cloak and threw it over him: the
ancient gesture which means a man has the protection of the
emperor. Then I shouted to the legions, "He will suffer quite
enough when we are masters of Rome !" This bit of demagoguery
distracted the men, and I ordered Nebridius taken under guard to
the palace.
I then reviewed the troops. It was a fine sight, and all the doubts
which had tormented me in the night were dispelled by the blue-
green summer day and the sight of twenty thousand men marching
in rhythmic unison to the Pyrrhic measure. It is at such moments
that one realizes war is an essential aspect of deity, and that the
communion of an army is a mystery in its way quite as beautiful
as that of Eleusis. For a moment all hearts beat to the same music.
We were one and there was nothing on earth we could not do!
When I returned to the palace, I sent for the stubborn Nebridius.
I exiled him to Tuscany. He had expected death. With tears in
his eyes he said, "Caesar, give me your hand. Let me . . . in
gratitude . . ." But I pulled back.
"There would be no honour nor sign of affection for me to
give to my friends, if I gave you my hand." That was the end of
Nebridius in Gaul.

On 3 July I took the field against Constant/us. The omens were
excellent and the weather fair.
We moved east to Augst, where I called a staff meeting. As usual,
I had kept my plans to myself; not even Oribasius knew what I
intended, though we rode together, ate together and chattered like
schoolboys.
With me as commanders were Nevitta- the great Frank whom
I come to admire more and more as I know him; Jovinus, a com-
petent officer; Gomoarius, a man I did not trust, for he was the

[2S8]



one who betrayed his commander Vetranio when he rebelled
against Constantius; Mamertinus, a good secretary; Dagalaif, per-
haps the best commander of cavalry in the history of the Roman
army. I began with the announcement that Sallust was now on his
way to Vienne to act as praetorian prefect; he would govern in
my place. This was well received. Sallust is admired not only by
me but by all men.
"I now have certain appointments to make." I did not have to
consult the sheet of paper before me. I got the disagreeable task
over with first. "Gomoarius, I remove you as commander of
cavalry. That post goes to Nevitta." There was silence. Gomoarius
said nothing. All knew my motive. We are a small family, the
military, despite the size of the empire. We all know one another's
faults and virtues. "Jovinus, I make you quaestor; Mamertinus,
treasurer; Dagalaif, commander of the household troops."
Then I went over the map on the folding table. "We are out-
numbered ten to one by the combined armies of Illyricum and
Italy. Fortunately, those armies are not combined. They consist
mostly of garrison troops, while ours is an aggressive army, used
to swift attack. Now, what is our best course of action ?" I paused.
They took my question for the rhetoric it was. "When in doubt,
imitate Alexander. Whenever his army was seriously outnumbered,
he would disperse his troops in such a way as to give the impression
that he had far more men than anyone knew. Therefore I mean to
split the army in three sections. We shall seem to be attacking
from every direction.
"Jovinus will take the direct route to Italy." I pointed to the
map. "You will notice I have marked the main roads for you.
Spread out along them. I want everyone to see you. Nevitta, you
take the middle course, due west through Raetia. I shall take the
remainder of the army and go north through the Black Forest to
the Danube. Then west and south along the Danube, straight to
Sirmium. Whoever holds Sirmium controls Illyricum and the
approach to Constantinople." I turned to Nevitta. "You and I will
rendezvous at Sirmium, no later than October."
None objected to my plan. Incidentally, for those who may get
the impression from history that divine emperors are never con-
tradicted by those who serve them, I should note that such is not
the case in the field. Though the emperor's word is final, any com-
mander is free to argue with him as much as he likes until the
war plan is actually set in motion. Personally, I have always

[259]


encouraged debate. Often as not it deteriorates into quibbling, but
occasionally one's strategy is improved. This time, however, there
was little discussion, only the usual arguments as to who got what
legion. The next day the army was divided, and the conquest of
the West began.
The Black Forest is a strange and ominous place. Seeing it from
within made me understand the Germans better. The place is
haunted; perverse demons lurk in every shadow . . . and what
shadows! Even at noon, the forest is so dim that it is like being
drowned in a deep green whispering sea. As we rode over quiet
trails, the legions, two abreast, wound like some slow sea-serpent
on the ocean floor. Fortunately, we had reliable guides who knew
every twist and turn of the forest. I cannot think how, for there
were no markers of any kind; yet they knew their way through
the green maze. For days on end we never saw the sun, until I
despaired of ever seeing my god again.

By the middle of August we were in the wild but beautiful valley
of the Danube. Though the river is not as impressive to look at as
the Rhine, it is far less treacherous to navigate. So I decided to
make the rest of the iourney by water.
At a village on the south bank, we halted and I ordered boats
built. While this was being done, I received the fealty of the local
tribes. They were amazed to see a Roman emperor (even a not
quite legitimate one!) so far north. When they discovered that I
meant them no harm, they were most co-operative and offered to
act as river pilots. They are a handsome, fair-skinned people, some-
what shy.
Meanwhile, messengers from Jovinus arrived, with good news.
Milan had fallen. He also wrote me the latest news of Constantius.
Sapor had advanced to the Tigris. Constantius had then withdrawn
to Edessa, where he was now holed up, avoiding battle. I was
amused to note that he had appointed Florentius praetorian pre-
fect of Illyricum. I was obviously poor Florentius's nemesis. I had
sent him out of Gaul; soon I would drive him from Illyricum. I
believe of all those who hate me, he must hate me the most. He
certainly has the best reason !
We sailed down the Danube through a golden country, rich
with harvest. We paused at none of the towns or fortresses which
became more numerous the farther south we went. There was no

[260]



time to waste. If I took Sirmium, all these towns would be mine by
right, but if I paused to lay siege to each I should never be done
fighting. Most of the natives were well disposed towards us; but
then none was put to the test.
In early October, at night, with the moon waning, we reached
Bonmunster, nineteen miles north of Sirmium. It is a small town,
with no garrison. Late as it was, I ordered all men ashore. We
pitched camp on the bank of the river.
1 do not know if it is common to all in my place, but it was my
experience as a usurper (and one must call me by that blunt name)
that everywhere I went well-wishers and informers flocked to me
like bees to honey, until I was forced to devise a screening process
to examine each would-be ally and determine if he could be used.
Most proved to be sincere; but then I proved to be victorious!
Before the moon had set, I had learned that Count Lucillianus
was at Sirmium, with a considerable army and orders to destroy
me. However, Lucillianus did not expect me in the vicinity for
another week, and so he slept now at Sirmium.

As soon as I had heard these reports, I sent for Dagalaif. I ordered
him to go straight to Sirmium with a hundred men; he was to seize
Lucillianus and bring him back. This was a considerable assign-
ment, but I knew from spies that the city was no more than usually
guarded and that the palace where Lucillianus was staying was
close to the gate. At night our men would look no different from
any other imperial troops; there would be no problem entering
the city. For the rest, I counted on Dagaliaf's boldness and
ingenuity.
After Dagalaif had left, Oribasius and I strolled together on the
river bank. It was a warm night. In the black sky a misshapen
moon, like a worn marble head, made all the country silver. Behind
us the fires and torches of the camp burned. The men were quiet;
they had orders to make no unnecessary noise; only the horses
occasionally disobeyed me, with sharp sudden whinnies. At the
top of the river bank we stopped.
"I like this," I said, turning to Oribasius, who was seated now on
a rock, staring at the bright diagonal the moonlight made across
the slow deep water.
Oribasius looked up at me. The moon was so bright that I could
make out his features. "This ?" He frowned. "Do you mean the
river ? or war ? or travel ?"
[26~]


"Life." I sat on the damp ground beside him and crossed my
legs, muddying the purple I wore. "Not war. Nor travel. Just this.
Right now." I sighed. "I can hardly believe we have crossed nearly
half the world. I feel like the wind, without a body, invisible."
He laughed. "You are probably the most visible man on earth,
and the most feared."
"Feared," I repeated, wondering if I would ever take satisfac-
tion from the knowledge that men's lives and fortunes could be
taken from them at a nod of my head. No, I cannot enjoy that
sort of power; it is not what I want.
"What do you want ?" Oribasius had divined my mood, as he so
often does.
"To restore the gods."
"But if they are real and do exist . . ."
"They are real ! There is no 'if' ! They do exist !" I was fierce.
His laughter stopped me. "Then they exist. But if they exist, they
are always present, and so there's no need to 'restore' them."
"But we must worship what God tells us to."
"So the Christians say."
"Ah, but theirs is a false god, and I mean to destroy them."
Oribasius stiflened at the word "destroy". "Kill them?"
"No. I shall not allow them the pleasure of martyrdom. Besides,
at the rate they kill one another, it would be gratuitous for me to
intervene. No, I shall fight them with reason and example. I shall
reopen the temples and reorganize the priesthood. We shall put
Hellenism on such a footing that people will choose it of their own
free will."
"I wonder." Oribasius was thoughtful. "They are rich, well-
organized. Most important, they educate the children."
"We shall do the same!" I was thinking as I spoke; I had no
plan. "Even better, we could take the schools away from them."
"If you could . . ."
"The Emperor can."
"It might work. Otherwise . . ."
"Otherwise ?"
"You would have to reign as a bloody tyrant and even then
you'd lose."
"I am not so pessimistic." But Oribasius had put an idea into
my head, one which will save us all. Curiously enough, though
we had often spoken of what it would be like when I became
emperor, none of us had ever really considered in much detail

[262]



what form the contest between Hellenism and the Galileans would
take. We agreed that when I could I would publicly repudiate
the Nazarene, but none of us had thought what the reaction might
be, particularly from the common people of whom perhaps half
are Galilean. Only the army is truly religious. The men worship
Mitl~ras. There are few Galileans in the ranks, though a third of
the officers believe in the triple monster.
We talked until it was morning. Just as the sun appeared over
the world's edge, like an omen, Dagalaif returned to camp with
Count Lucillianus as prisoner.
I hurried to my tent. There on the ground in his nightclothes
was Lucillianus, trussed like a chicken. He was terrified. For a
moment I looked down on the shivering body, recalling that the
last time I had seen him he had been my brother's jailer. Then I
loosened his bonds and raised him to his feet. This friendly gesture
somewhat relieved his anxiety. He is a large man, given to peculiar
diets. For years he would eat only udder of sow; at least that is the
story one hears.
"We are happy you could attend us on such short notice, Count."
I was formal but agreeable.
"If only I had known, Caesar... I mean Augustus... I should
have met you myself . . ."
"And put me to death, like Gallus ?"
"Those were my orders, Augustus, but you may depend on my
loyalty to you in this dispute. I have always been loyal. I have
always preferred you to the Emp--- to him at Antioch."
"We accept your loyalty, your troops, your city of Sirmium,
and the prefecture of Illyricum."
He gasped but bowed. "Such is the will of Augustus. All these
are yours."
"Thank you, Count." I was in an excellent mood. Lucillianus is
the sort of man who does not think ahead - witness his failure to
anticipate my arrival- and men who do not think ahead tend to
accept what is; they never conspire.
I said, "Now swear your oath to me." He swore; and kissed the
purple, getting a bit of Danube mud on his face. "You will retain
your rank, Count, and serve in my army."
Lucillianus's recovery was swift. "If I may say so, Lord, it is a
very rash thing you have done, coming here with such a small
army in the midst of someone else's territory."
"Reserve, my dear Count, your wisdom for Constantius. I have

[263]


given you my hand not to make you my counsellor but less afraid."
I turned to Mamertinus. "Give the word to the army. We march
to Sirmium."
Sirmium is a large city, highly suitable for an imperial capital,
standing as it does upon the border between the prefecture of
Illyricum and the diocese of Thrace- the westernmost country
of the prefecture of the East. I was now at the beginning of the
territory traditionally assigned to the Augustus of the East.
I had warned my officers that there might be incidents. I did
not expect the city to surrender without token resistance, even
though its commander was now with us, riding at my side.
But to my astonishment, we were met outside the gates by a
vast crowd of men, women and children, carrying chains of
flowers, boughs of trees and numerous sacred objects. I was hailed
as Augustus with the most extraordinary enthusiasm.
I turned to Lucillianus and shouted to him above the din, "Did
you arrange this ?"
He shook his head. He was too stupid to lie. "No, Augustus. I
don't know who arranged it . . ."
"Legend !" said Oribasius. "They know you'll win. They always
do."
A large bouquet of flowers hit me in the face. Eyes stinging, I
swept it aside; a blood-red poppy caught in my beard. Men and
women kissed my robe, my legs, my horse. Thus was I escorted
into the capital of Illyricum while the grapes were still green. It
was the first great city ever to fall to me, twice the size of Stras-
bourg or Cologne or even Treyes. The date was 3 October 36~.
I went straight to the palace, and to business. I received the
senate of the city. I allayed their fears. They swore loyalty to me,
as did the legions within the city. I ordered a week of chariot races
next day to amuse the populace, one of the burdens the conquered
invariably put upon the conqueror. With great pleasure I received
Nevitta who, true to his promise, arrived at Sirmium after a
victorious passage through Raetia. The West was ours.
I called a staff meeting, and we discussed our next move. Some
favoured marching straight to Constantinople, two hundred miles
distant. Dagalaif argued that with Constantius in Antioch, Con-
stantinople would fall to us without a battle. Nevitta was not so
certain. He was afraid that Constantius was probably already on
the march from Antioch to the capital. If this were so, we were
hardly a match for what was, in fact, the largest army on earth.

[264]



I agreed with Nevitta. We would remain where we were for the
winter.
I entrusted to Nevitta the defence of the Succi Pass, a narrow
defile in the high mountains that separate Thrace from Illyricum.
Whoever holds this pass is safe from attack by land. I then sent
two of the Sirmium legions to Aquileia, to hold that important
seaport for us. With the main part of the army I withdrew some
fifty miles north-west to Nish (where Constantine was born); here
I went into winter quarters.
The weeks at Nish were busy ones. Every night I dictated until
dawn. I was determined to present my case against Constantius as
clearly as possible for all to read and comprehend. I sent a lengthy
message to the Roman senate. I also composed separate letters for
the senates of Sparta, Corinth and Athens, explaining what 1 had
done and what I intended to do. Heavily but justly, I placed the
blame for all that had happened on Constantius. Then- though
Oribasius warned me not to- I assured the various senates that I
intended to restore the worship of the old gods, making the point
that I personally imitated them in order that, by having the fewest
possible needs, I might do good to the greatest possible number.
These letters were read at every public gathering. They made a
profound and favourable impression.
During this period I planned an amphibious attack on Con-
stantinople to take place as soon as the winds favoured us. We
were in a good position militarily. At Succi we controlled the land
approach to the West. At Aquileia we controlled the sea approach
to northern Italy. I felt reasonably secure, and was confident that
before civil war broke out, Constantius would come to terms with
me. But my sense of security was rudely shattered when I learned
that the two legions I had sent to Aquileia had promptly gone over
to Constantius. The port was now his, and I was vulnerable to an
attack by sea. Since I was not able to leave Nish and Nevitta could
not leave Succi, my only hope was Jovinus, who was in Austria
en route to Nish. I sent him a frantic message: proceed immediately
to Aquileia. My situation was now most precarious. Constantius
could at any time land an army at Aquileia and cut me off from
Italy and Gaul. I was in despair, confident that the gods had
deserted me. But they had not. At the last moment, they intervened.
On the night of 20 November I was working late. Lamps filled
with cheap oil smoked abominably. The three night secretaries sat
at a long table, mountains of parchment stacked in front of them.

[265]


At a separate table I was writing a letter to my uncle Julian, trying
to reassure him - and myself - that victory was certain. I had just
finished the letter with one of those postscripts which even old
friends say they cannot decipher, when I heard footsteps quickly
approaching. Without ceremony the door flew open. The clerks
and I leapt to our feet. One never knows if assassins are at hand.
But it was Oribasius, out of breath, a letter in his hand.
"It's happened !" he gasped. Then he did something he had never
done before. He dropped on his knees before me, and offered me
the letter. "This is for you . . . Augustus."
I read the first line. Then the words blurred together and I could
read no more. "Constantius is dead." As I said those extraordinary
words, the clerks one by one fell to their knees. Then, as in a dream,
the room began to fill with people. All knew what had happened.
All paid me silent homage for I had, miraculously, with the stop-
ping of one man's breath, become sole Augustus, Emperor of Rome,
Lord of the world. To my astonishment, I wept.

[266]



AUGUSTUS


Priscus: That is the way it happened. At least that is the way Julian
says it happened. As you must gather, he omits a number of details.
To read his account one would think that there had been no resist-
ance at all to him, other than from the wicked Constantius. This
was hardly true. I should say that a majority of the "responsible"
men in the empire prefen'ed Constantius to Julian, nor was this
on religious grounds, since Julian's passion for Hellenism was not
generally known as of November 36~. I am sure you will want to
state matters as they actually were. Your famous balance would
be seriously deranged if you were to record that Julian's success
was the result of a popular uprising against Constantius. It was
not-despite the impression you gave in your justly celebrated
oration at the time of Julian's death. But then the great wings of
a memorial, like those of a panegyric, are not expected to be
clipped by tedious fact.

Libanius: How typical!

?riscus: Julian notes in passing that he sent various messages to
,different cities. Indeed he did! He must have composed at least a
dozen lengthy harangues, addressed variously to the senates at
Rome and Constantinople- a not unnatural precaution- but then
an equal number of apologias were sent to such cities as Corinth
and Sparta, as if they still mattered in the scale of power. Their
poor backwoods town councils must have been astonished to
receive an emperor's homage.
I was present at the senate in Athens when the message to us
was read. Since I know that you want only the truth, I must tell
you that the letter was not well received, and of all cities Athens
was most inclined to Julian.
I sat beside Prohaeresius while the message was read. The old
man was amused, but cautious. So was I. Of course, everyone in
Athens was aware that I had only recently come from Julian; even
so, I was firm in saying that I knew nothing of his plans. I even
praised Constantius on several public occasions. After all, Con-
stantius might have lived. Julian might have been defeated. I might
[268]


have been executed for treason. Like everyone else, I prefer to
avoid undue distress at the hands of tyrants.
We were all quite nervous at the beginning of the message. (If
you don't have a copy of this address, I will send you mine, free
of charge.) Naturally, we were flattered by Julian's references to
our ancient past, as well as respectful of his quite skilful mastery
of rhetoric, even though he was prone to clich~s, especially when
he was tired or writing too fast. He could seldom prepare a message
without "Xerxes defying nature", or trotting out that damned "oak
tree" which no contemporary writer seems able to avoid.
But after a good beginning, Julian then denounced Constantius.
He named all the murders. He made a point of Constantius's in-
fertility (not knowing that Constantius's new wife Faustina was
pregnant). He denounced the eunuchs, particularly Eusebius. He
gave us a considerable autobiography, generally accurate, ending
with the statement that he was now in the field because no one
could trust the word of Constantius, since it was, he declared
(relying again on a familiar phrase), "written in ashes". At this
point the senators of Athens began to clear their throats and scuff
their sandals on the floor, always a bad sign.
At the end of the message there was no discussion. The senate,
wisely, went on to other matters. No one had the courage to
behave as the senate at Rome did when '*they were read their letters,
and Tertullus, the city's prefect, shouted, "We demand reverence
for Constantius, who raised you up!"
When the senate adjourned, Prohaeresius and I left the chamber
together. No one spoke to anyone else. Then - as now - the secret
service was ubiquitous. We knew nothing except that Julian was
somewhere in the Balkans, that the West appeared to be his, and
that Constantius was moving against him with a superior army.
It was not easy to know how to behave. Our sort is for ever courted
by usurpers and asked to join in this or that undertaking. Since no
one can kno~ the future, it is quite easy to pick the wrong side.
The death of Maximus was instructive, wasn't it, old friend ?
But of course we are all so used to these sudden changes in
government that there is almost an etiquette in how one responds
to invitations which could as easily turn out disastrous as
advantageous. First, one appears to ponder the request with grave
attention; then one pleads a personal problem; finally, one does
nothing. That is how you and I have managed to live to be so old
in such a stormy time.

[269]


I recall vividly my walk with Prohaeresius. It must have been
some time in the second week of November. The weather was
cold, the wind sharp, the afternoon clouds more thick than usual.
Absently, Prohaeresius put his arm through mine. We hurried
through the crowd which had gathered outside the senate house.
Not till we were past the temple of Hephaestos did he speak. "You
know him. What will happen ?""I think he will win."
"How can he ? Constantius has the army. The people are with
him. They're certainly not with your . . . our young student.
The senate's mood was perfectly plain."
"I think he will win, that's all." But I was by no means as con-
fident as I sounded.
"The oracles . . ." But the old man stopped. He was not about
to give himself away to me. "Come home with me."
I accepted, not yet eager for Hippia's company. My marriage,
always unhappy, was at this time unbearable: Hippia was still
furious at me for having spent nearly three years in Paris, despite
the money I had been able to send her. Today, however, after
fifty years of mutual loathing, we are quite dependent on one
another. Habit is stronger than hate.
I was surprised to find Macrina at Prohaeresius's house. She had
not been much in evidence since the birth of her child (ostensibly
sired by the businessman husband). She had gained a little weight,
which was attractive.
Macrina greeted us in the inner court. She was ecstatic. "It's
happened! He's all right!"
"What has happened? Who is all right?" Prohaeresius was
irritable.
"Julian is Emperor!"
That is how we got the news at Athens. Apparently, the formal
message to the senate had been delayed. But Julian had written
Prohaeresius and me, taking it for granted that we had already
heard the news. We were both invited to attend him at
Constantinople.
Macrina was exultant. "We must all go to court. Every one of
us. We'll all live in Constantinople. No more Athens. No more
grubby students . . ."
"No more grubby husband ?" I could not resist this. She stopped
talking.
Prohaeresius, who had been studying the letter, frowned. "He

[270]



says, 'I worship the true gods openly and all the troops with me
worhsip them. I have offered the gods many oxen as thank-offer-
ings for my victory, and I shall soon restore their worship in all
its purity.'" The old man looked at us grimly. "So he means to do
what he said he would do."
"Why not ?" Macrina was sharp. "He can't be worse than the
bishops."
"Except that now he's Emperor there won't be an ox left in the
world !" I believe I was the first to make what was soon a universal
joke: Julian's sacrifices were so rich that he was nicknamed "Bull-
Burner".
Unlike Macrina and me, Prohaeresius was in a dark mood. "I
see only trouble for us," he said.
"Trouble ? When you are the man the Emperor most admires ?"
Macrina was unbelieving. "Nonsense. It'll be the making of all you
schoolteachers. He'll be another Marcus Aurelius. Well, Septimus
Severus, anyway."
"Julian is better than Marcus Aurelius," I said, and I meant it.
Marcus Aurelius has been enormously overrated as a philosopher.
People- especially scholars- are so thrilled that an emperor can
even write his own name that they tend to exaggerate the value of
his literary productions. If you or I had written those Meditations,
they would not, I am certain, be considered of any great value.
They are certainly inferior to your own superb pensdes.
Not for several weeks did we know the details of Constantius's
death, or in what manner the succession had been assured. Julian
gives his version of what happened.

JuIian Au~tustus
As far as I can make out, Constantius had been in poor health
for some months. He had chronic stomach trouble, a family weak-
ness from which I alone seem to be exempt (so far!). As soon as
I had been given the news, I sent everyone out of the room except
Oribasius. Then the two officers from the Consistory were brought
to me. My first question was the obvious one: "How did he
die ?"
"Of a fever, Augustus." The older officer, Aligildus, did most of
t.he telling.
"Had there been omens ?" I particularly wanted to know because
I had myself received a number of mysterious signs during the pre-
vious weeks. It is good to be scientific about these things. Might

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not an omen observed to be malign by Constantius appear simul-
taneously to me as benign ?
"Many, Augustus. For several weeks in the field he had been
disturbed by waking-dreams and nightmares. On one occasion, he
thought he saw the ghost of his father, the great Constantine,
carrying in his arms a child, a handsome, strong child which Con-
stantius took and held on his lap."
I turned with wonder to Oribasius. "Is Constantine my creator ?"
For it was plain enough that I was the child in the dream.
"Then the boy seized the orb Constantius held in his right
hand . . ."
"The world," I murmured.
"... and threw it out of sight!" Aligildus paused.
I nodded. "I understand the dream. Did he?"
"Yes, Augustus. Shortly afterwards, when we came to Antioch,
the Emperor told Eusebius that he had a sense that something
which had always been with him was gone."
"The Spirit of Rome. These are the signs," I said to Oribasius.
Like so many who deal too much in the material world, Oribasius
puts little stock in omens and dreams. Yet I think even he was
impressed by what he had heard. I quoted Menander, "A spirit is
given each man at birth to direct his course." Then I asked about
my cousin's last days.
"He spent most of the summer at Antioch, assembling an army
to . . ." Aligildus paused, ill at ease.
"To use against me." I was amiable. Why not ? Heaven was on
my side.
"Yes, Lord. Then in the autumn, after many dreams and bad
omens, Constanfius left Antioch for the north. Three miles outside
of the city in a suburb . . ."
"Called Hippocephalus," said Theolaif, the other officer, remind-
ing us that he too was messenger and witness. "We saw, on the
right-hand side of the road, at noon, the headless corpse of a man
[acing west."
A chill ran through me. I hope that when my star falls I shall
be spared the torment of such signs.
"From that moment on, Lord, the Emperor was not himself.
We hurried on to Tarsus, where he came down with a fever."
"But he could not stop," said Theolaif, suddenly inspired: the
deaths of princes and the malignity of Fate obsess us all. "I know.
I was with him. I rode beside him. I said, 'Lord, stop here. Wait.

[272]


In a few days you will be well.' But he looked at me with glazed
eyes, his face dark with fever. He swayed in the saddle. I steadied
him with my hand and felt his hand, hot and dry. 'No,' he said,
and his tongue was dry, too. He could hardly speak. 'We go on.
We go on. We go on.' Three times he said that. And we went on."
Aligildus continued, "When we came to the springs at Mobsu-
crene, he was delirious. We put him to bed. In the night he sweated
and the next morning he seemed better. He gave orders to leave.
We obeyed, reluctantly. But when the army was ready to move,
he was delirious. Constantius was ill three days, his body so hot
that it was painful to touch him. Yet he had moments of clarity. In
one of those moments, he made his will. This is it." Aligildus
handed me a sealed letter which I did not open."How was he, at the end ?"
"When he was conscious, he was angry."
"At me ?"
"No, Lord, at death, for taking him in his prime, for taking him
from his young wife."
"It is bitter," I said formally. Who is so inhuman as not to feel
something at a man's death ? even at that of an enemy.
"Then, shortly before dawn on 3 November, he asked
to be baptized, like his father. After the ceremony, he tried to sit
up. He tried to speak. He choked. He died. He was forty-five years
old," added Aligildus, as though he were making a funeral address.
"In the twenty-fifth year of his principate," I noted, in the same
style.
"Pray, Augustus," said Oribasius suddenly, "you reign as long."
We were silent for a moment. I tried to remember how Con-
stantius looked and failed. When a famous man dies one tends to
remember only the sculpture, especially when there is so much
of it. I can recall Constantius's monuments but not his living face,
not even those great dark eyes which are to my memory blank
spaces cut in marble.
"Where is the Chamberlain Eusebius 1"
"Still at the Springs. The court waits upon your orders." Aligildus
for the first time sounded uncertain. "You, Augustus, are the heir
legitimate." He pointed to the letter that I held in my hand.
"There was no . . . objection in the Consistory/"
"None, Lord!" The two men spoke as one.
I rose. "Tomorrow you will return to the Springs. Tell the Con-
sistory that I shall meet them as soon as possible at Constantinople.

['-73]


See that the body of my cousin is brought home for a proper burial,
and that his widow is treated with all the honour due her rank."
The officers saluted, and departed.
Then Oribasius and I opened the will. It was short and to the
point, unlike the usual imperial prose. One knew that a man had
dictated it, not a lawyer.
"The Caesar Julian at my death is raised legitimately" (even on
his deathbed he could not resist this jab) "to the principate of
Rome. He will find my stewardship has been faithful. Despite
much treason within the empire and formidable enemies with-
out, the state has prospered in my reign and the borders are
secure."
I looked at Oribasius, amused. "I wonder how they feel about
that in Amida."
I read on. "We entrust to our most noble cousin and heir our
young wife Faustina. She is provided for in a separate testament,
and it is our final prayer that our most noble cousin and heir will
respect the terms of that will and carry them out as befits a great
prince who can afford to show mercy to the weak . . ."
I paused. "Once I tried to make that same speech to him."
Oribasius looked at me oddly. "He spared you," he said.
"Yes. To his regret." I hurried through the rest of the document.
There were a number of bequests to retainers and friends. One
particularly struck me. "I cannot recommend to my most noble
cousin and heir a wiser counsellor or one more loyal than the
Grand Chamberlain Eusebius." Even Oribasius laughed at this.
Then, at the very last, Constantius spoke directly to me. "We
have had differences, the Caesar Julian and I, but I think that he
will find when he fills my place that the earth seems not so big as
he thought it was from his previous place or from any other place,
saving this summit where there can be but one man and a single
responsibility for all men, and great decisions to be made, often
in haste and sometimes regretted. We are not to be understood by
any except our own kind. My most noble cousin and heir will
know what I mean when he takes up the orb I have let go. Now
in death I am his constant brother in the purple and from what-
ever place God sees fit to put my soul I shall observe his deeds with
fellow-feeling and hope that as he comes to know the singularity
of his new estate- and its cruel isolation- he will understand if
not forgive his predecessor, who wanted only the stability of the
state, the just execution of the law, and the true worship of that

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God from whom come all our lives and to whom all must return.
Julian, pray for me."
That was it. Oribasius and I looked at one another, unable to
believe that this crude and touching document was the work of a
man who had governed the world for a quarter century.
"He was strong." I could think of nothing more to say.
The next day I ordered a sacrifice to the gods. The legions were
most enthusiastic, not only at my accession (and the avoidance of
a civil war), but at being allowed to pray to the old gods openly.
Man7 of them were fellow brothers in Mithras.

?riscus: This is quite untrue. In actual fact there was a near-mutiny
when the sacrifices were ordered, especially among the officers. At
this time Julian was very much under the influence of a Gaul
named Aprunculus, who had foretold Constantius's death by dis-
covering an ox liver with two lobes, which meant that . . . et
cetera. As a reward for having found that double liver, Aprunculus
was made governor of Gallia Narbonensis. It was said at the time
that a quadruple liver might have got him all of Gaul.
Aprunculus persuaded Julian to place the images of the gods
next to his own image so that when each man came to throw
incense on the fire as homage to the emperor, he also did reverence,
like it or not, to the gods. This caused a good deal of bad feeling,
none of which Julian notes.

Julian Augustus
Less than a week later, I gave the order to proceed to Con-
stantinople. I will not dwell on the elation of those days. Even
the cold winter - and it was the coldest in many years - did not
depress us.
In a blizzard, we filed through the pass of Succi and descended
into Thrace. From there we proceeded to the ancient city of
Philippopolis where we stayed overnight. Then we moved south
to Heraclea, a town fifty miles south-west of Constantinople
where, shortly before midday, to my astonishment, most of the
senate and the Sacred Consistory were gathered in the main
square.
I was hardly prepared for such a greeting. I was tired, dirty,
and I desperately needed to relieve myself. Imagine then the new
emperor, eyes twitching with fatigue, hands, legs, face streaked
with dust, bladder full, receiving the slow, measured, stately
[275]


acclamation of the senate. Looking back, I laugh; at the time, I
was hard pressed to be gracious.
I dismounted at one end of the square and crossed to the prefect's
house. The Scholarian Guards made an aisle for me. They are
called Scholarian because their barracks are in the front portico-
the "school" - of the Sacred Palace. I studied my new troops with
a cold eye. They were smartly turned out; most were Germans...
what else ? They studied me, too. They were both curious and
alarmed, which is as it should be. Too often in the past emperors
have been frightened of the guard.
I climbed the steps to the prefect's house. There, all in a row,
were the officers of the empire. As I approached, they fell to their
knees. I asked them to rise. I hate the sight of men old enough
to be my grandfather prostrate before me. Recently I tried to
simplify the court's ceremonies but the senate would not allow
it, so used are they to servitude. They argue that since the Great
King of Persia keeps similar state, I must, too, or appear less awe-
some in men's eyes. Nonsense. But there are too many important
changes to be made to worry about court ceremonial.
The first official to greet me was Arbetio, who had been consul
in the year I was made Caesar. He is a vigorous, hard-faced man of
forty; born a peasant, he became a soldier, rising to commander of
cavalry and the consulship. He wants my place, just as he wanted
Constantius's place. Now there are two ways to handle such a
man. One is to kill him. The other is to keep him near one, safely
employed, always watched. I chose the latter for I have found
that if someone is reasonably honest and well-meaning-though
he has treated one badly- he should be forgiven. When men are
honest in public life we must be on good terms with them, even
though they have treated us badly in a private capacity; while if
they are dishonest in public affairs, even though they are per-
sonally devoted to us, they must be dismissed.
Arbetio welcomed me in the name of the senate, though he was
not its chief officer.
"We are here to do as the Augustus wills." The proud loud voice
belied the words. "In everything."
"... and to prepare for his entering the city as our Lord!" I
turned when I heard those words and there, approaching me from
a crowd of senators, was Julian, my uncle. He was trembling with
excitement (and infirmity, for he suffered from a recurrent fever,
souvenir of his days as governor of Egypt). I embraced him

[276]


warmly. We had not seen each other for seven years, though we
had corresponded as regularly as we dared. My uncle had aged
alarmingly; his face was haggard, the yellow skin loose, eyes deep-
set, but even so, this day he was transfigured with delight. I kept
my arm through his as I addressed the crowd.
"I am moved at your gesture, since it is not usual for the senate
to leave their city to meet the first citizen. Rather it is the first
citizen who must come to you, to his peers, who share with him
the task of governing, and I shall be with you shortly in your own
house to do you the homage you deserve. Meanwhile, I make only
one announcement: I shall accept no coronation money from the
provinces, imitating in this Hadrian and Antoninus Plus. The
Empire is too poor at present to make me a gift." There was
applause. Then after a few more ungraceful remarks, I pleaded
fatigue, and excused myself. The town prefect bowed me into the
building, stammering, stumbling, getting in my way, until at last
I shouted, "In Hermes's name, where do you piss ?" Thus graciously
did the new Emperor of Rome come to the East.
The prefect's house had a small private bath and while I soaked
in the hot pool, taking deep breaths of steam, my uncle Julian dis-
cussed the political situation.
"When Constantius died, Eusebius sounded out several members
of the Consistory to see if they would accept Arbetio as emperor,
or Procopius . . . or me." My uncle smiled shyly at this. He
wanted me to hear this from his own lips rather than from an
informer.
"Naturally," I said, watching the dust from my beard float like
a grey cloud into the centre of the pool where a Negro slave stood,
ready to scrub me with towels and sponges, unaware that I never
let bath attendants touch me.
"What did the Consistory say to all this ?"
"That you were the Emperor, by blood and by choice."
"As well as being only a few hundred miles away."
"Exactly."
"Where is Eusebius 7"
"At the palace, preparing for your arrival. He is still Grand
Chamberlain." My uncle smiled.
I submerged for a moment, eyes tight shut, soaking my head.
When I came to the surface, Oribasius was sitting on the bench
beside my uncle.
"That is no way to approach the sacred presence." And I

[277]


splashed Oribasius very satisfactorily. He laughed. My uncle Julian
laughed, too, for I had soaked him as well. Then I was alarmed. In
just this way are monsters born. First, the tyrant plays harmless
games: splashes senators in the bath, serves wooden food to dinner
guests, plays practical jokes; and no matter what he says and does,
everyone laughs and flatters him, finds witty his most inane re-
marks. Then the small jokes begin to pall. One day he finds it
amusing to rape another man's wife, as the husband watches, or
the husband as the wife looks on, or to torture them both, or to
kill them. When the killing begins, the emperor is no longer a man
but a beast, and we have had too many beasts already on the throne
of the world. Vehemently, ! apologized for splashing my uncle. I
even apologized for splashing Oribasius, though he is like my own
brother. Neither guessed the significance of this guilty outburst.
Oribasius told me that the Consistory wanted to know whom I
intended to appoint as consuls for the coming year."Uncle, what about you ?"
"I can't afford the consulship." It was a sign of my uncle's
wealth that he always complained of poverty. Actually, the consul-
ship is not so expensive as it used to be. Nowadays, the two consuls
pool their resources for the games they must sponsor, while the
emperor usually helps them from the Privy Purse.
"I don't think you'd like it, Oribasius."
"No, Augustus, I would not."
"Mamertinus," I said, swimming to the far side of the pool.
Both my uncle and Oribasius approved. "He's a distinguished
rhetorician," said my uncle. "Of good family, a popular choice..."
"And Nevitta!" I dived under the water as I said this. When 1
came up for air, I could see that Oribasius was amused and my
uncle horrified.
"But he is . . . he is . . ."
I nodded. "A Frank. A barbarian."
I got out of the bath. The slave wrapped me in a large towel. I
broke away from him before he could start pummelling me. "He
is also one of our best generals. He will be a continual reminder to
the East that my power rests securely in the West."
"No one will ever accuse you of consistency." Oribasius grinned.
Only the month before at Nish, I had denounced Constantius for
appointing barbarians to prefectures. Now I was making one con-
sul. There is nothing harder politically than to have to reverse your-
self publicly. But where Constantius would rather die than ever

[278]


admit to a mistake, I was quite willing to look a bit foolish, and do
the right thing."
"We shall deny," I said with much grandeur, "that I ever
criticized the appointment of barbarians to high office."
"Your letter to the Spartan senate was a forgery ?"
"In every detail."
Oribasius and I laughed but my uncle looked pained. "At least,"
he said, "name only Mamertinus today. Besides, it's the custom to
name one consul at a time, so name him for the East. Later you
can announce the . . . the other man for the West."
"So be it, Uncle !" And together we went into the dressing-room
where I put on the purple.
The Consistory was almost at full strength, some forty officers
of state, who received me ceremoniously at the town hall. Arbetio
escorted me to my ivory chair. To my left and right were the
empty consular chairs. One for Florentius, who had-has-
vanished from the face of the earth; the other for Taurus, who
fled to Antioch when I first came into Illyricum.
I greeted the Consistory politely. I noted the absence of
the consuls, remarking that as a new year was about to begin,
there would soon be two new consuls. One would be Mamertinus.
This was received with every appearance of satisfaction. I then
made a number of additions to the Consistory. When I had
finished, Arbetio begged to address me..Heart sinking, I granted
him leave.
Slowly, solemnly, as though he were the Augustus, Arbetio
moved to the centre of the room, just in front of my chair. He
cleared his throat. "Lord, there are those who have plotted against
you." A sharp intake of breath was heard all round the room. After
all, there was hardly a man present who had not conspired against
me. It had been their duty. "Those men are still at large. Some in
high places. Lord, there are also those who conspired against your
most noble brother, the Caesar Gallus. They, too, are at large.
Some in high places."
I looked about the room and saw several men "in high places"
look most uneasy. There was the stout Palladius, chief marshal of
Constantius's court. He had brought charges against Gallus. Next
to him stood Evagrius, Count of the Privy Purse; he had helped
prepare the case against Gallus. And Saturninus, Steward of the
Household . . . A dozen conspirators looked back at Arbetio and
me. The question in every face was: Will this reign begin in blood ?

[279]


It was Ursulus, Count of the Sacred Largesse, who spoke up
boldly. "Augustus, are those of us who served the emperor you
served so well, to suffer for having done our duty ?""No!" I was firm.
But Arbetio turned his bleak, pale gaze upon Ursulus. "Yet,
Augustus, those who have by deed hurt you and your brother, by
word and by deed, must be condemned."
There was an uneasy murmur in the room. Yet Ursulus stood
his ground. He was a handsome fleshy man with a quick wit and
quicker tongue. "The Consistory are relieved, Lord, that only those
who are truly guilty will be charged."
"They shall be charged," said Arbetio, speaking for me, which I
did not like, "if it be our Lord's will."
"It is our will." I said the traditional phrase in Latin.
"Who shall compose this court, Lord ? and where shall it sit ?"
Now I should have stopped Arbetio at that moment. But I was
tired from the long journey and languorous from a hot bath
(never try to do any business immediately after bathing). I was un-
prepared for a strong will with a plan, and Arbetio had a plan, alas.
Meanwhile, Ursulus proposed: "Since the Emperor Hadrian, the
Consistory has been our highest court. So let the guilty be
judged here, by us who are responsible for the business of the
state."
"But, Count," and Arbetio's voice was cold in its correctness,
"the Consistory is still that of the late emperor, not of our new
lord. I am sure the Augustus will want his own tribunal, as he will
in time want his own Consistory." This was undeniable.
I motioned to one of the secretaries to pay close attention as I
spoke. "The court will be headed by Salutius Secundus." This
went over very well. As praetorian prefect of the East he is known
for his sense of justice. I then named Mamertinus, Agilo, Nevitta,
Jovinus, and Arbetio to the court. It was, in short, a military
tribunal. I then ordered them to meet at Chalcedon, across the
Bosphorus from Constantinople. Thus began the treason trials. I
shall - sadly - refer to them later.

On x~ December 361 I entered Constantinople as Roman
Emperor. Snow fell at slow intervals and the great flakes turned
like feathers in air so still that the day was almost warm. The
sky was low and the colour of tarnished silver. There was no

[280]


colour that day in nature, only in man, but what colour! It was
a day of splendour.
In front of the Golden Gate, close to the sea of Marmora, the
Scholarians in full-dress uniform stood at attention. On each of
the brick towers at either side of the gate, the dragons were un-
furled. The green bronze gates were shut. As custom demanded, I
dismounted a few yards from the wall. The commander of the
Scholarians gave me a silver hammer. With it I struck the bronze
gate three times. From within, came the voice of the city's prefect.
"Who goes there ?"
"Julian Augustus," I replied in a loud voice. "A citizen of the
city."
"Enter Julian Augustus."
The bronze gates swung open noiselessly and there before me in
the inner .courtyard stood the prefect of the city- and some two
thousand men of senatorial rank. The Sacred Consistory was also
there, having preceded me into the capital the night before. Quite
alone, I passed through the gate and took possession of the City of
Constantine.
Trumpets sounded. The people cheered. I was particularly struck
by the brightness of the clothes they wore. I don't know whether
it was the white setting which made the reds and greens, the yellows
and blues almost unbearably vivid, or the fact that I had been
away too long in northern countries where all colours are as muted
and as dim as the forests in which the people live. But this was not
the misty north. This was Constantinople, and despite the legend
that we are the New Rome (and like that republican city, austere,
stern, virtuous), we are not Rome at all. We are Asia. I thought of
this as I was helped into the gold chariot of Constantine, recalling
with amusement Eutherius's constant complaint, "You are hope-
lessly Asiatic!" Well, I am Asiatic! And I was home at last.
As flakes of snow settled in my hair and beard, I rode down
Middle Street. Everywhere I looked I saw changes. The city had
altered completely in the few years I had been away. For one thing,
it has outgrown the wall of Constantine. What were once open
fields are now crowded suburbs, and one day I shall have to go to
the expense of building a new wall to contain these suburbs, which,
incidentally, are not carefully laid out in the way the city was
but simply created helter-skelter by contractors interested only in
a quick profit.
Colonnades line Middle Street from one end to the other. The


arcades were crowded with people who cheered me ecstatically.
Why ? Because they loved me ? No. Because I was a novelty. The
people tire of the same ruler, no matter how excellent. They had
got bored with Constantius and they wanted a change of pro-
gramme and I was it.
Suddenly I heard what sounded like thunder at my back. For a
moment I took it as an omen that Zeus had approved me. Then I
realized it was not thunder but my army singing the marching song
of Julius Caesar's troops: "Ecce Caesar nunc triumphat, Qui subettit
Gallias!" It is the sound of war itself, and of all earthly glory.
The prefect of the city walked beside my chariot and tried to
point out the new buildings, but I could not hear him for the noise
of the mob. Even so, it was exhilarating to see so much activity,
in contrast to old cities like Athens and Milan where a new build-
ing is a rarity. When an old house collapses in Athens, the
occupants simply move into another one, for there are far more
houses than people. But everything in Constantinople is brand-
new, including the population, which is now - the prefect shouted
to me just as we entered the Forum of Constantine- close to a
million people, counting slaves and foreigners.
The colossal statue of Constantine at the centre of the oval
forum always gives me a shock. I can never get used to it. On a tall
column of porphyry, my uncle set up a statue of Apollo, stolen I
believe from Delos. He then knocked the head off this masterpiece
and substituted his own likeness, an inferior piece of work by any
standard and so badly joined that there is a dark ring where head
and neck meet. The people refer to this monument as "old dirty
neck". On the head there is a monstrous halo of seven bronze rays,
perfect blasphemy, not only to the true gods but to the Galilean
as well. Constantine saw himself as both Galilean and as incarna-
tion of the sun god. He was most ambitious. I am told he doted
on this particular statue and used to look at it every chance
he got: he even pretended that the Apollonian body was his
own !
We then entered that section of Middle Street which is called
Imperial Way and leads into the Augusteum, a large porticoed
square which was the centre of the city when it was called
Byzantium. In the middle of the Augusteum, Constantine set up a
large statue of his mother Helena. She is seated on a throne and
looks quite severe; in one hand she holds a piece of wood said to
have been a part of the cross to which the Galilean was nailed. My

[282]


great-aunt had a passion for relics; she was also infinitely gullible.
There is not a charnel house in the city to which she did not give
some sliver of wood, shred of cloth, bit of bone said to have been
associated in one way or another with that unfortunate rabbi and
his family.
To my astonishment, the entire north side of the square was
taken up by the basilica of a charnel house so new that the scaffold-
ing had not yet been removed from the front. The prefect beamed
cheerfully at me, thinking I would be pleased.
"Augustus may recall the old church that was here ? the small
one the Great Constantine dedicated to Holy Wisdom ? Well, the
Emperor Constantius has had it enlarged. In fact, only last summer
he rededicated it."
I said nothing but immediately vowed to turn their Saint Sophia
into a temple to Athena. It would never do to have a Galilean
monument right at my front door (the main entrance to the palace
is on the south side of the square, just opposite the charnel house).
To the east is the senate house to which the senators were now
repairing. The senate's usual quorum is fifty, but today all two
thousand were present, elbowing one another as they hurried up
the slippery steps.
The square was now jammed with people, and no one knew
what to do next. The prefect was used to being given his orders
by the palace chamberlains, who were, if nothing else, masters of
pageantry. But today the chamberlains were in hiding and neither
the prefect nor I knew what to do. I'm afraid between us we made
rather a botch of things.
My chariot had stopped at the Milion, a covered monument from
which all distances in the empire are measured. Yes, we counterfeit
Rome in this, too; in everything, even to the seven hills.
"The senate waits for you, Lord," said the prefect nervously.
"Waits for me? They're still trying to get inside the senate
house !"
"Perhaps the Augustus would prefer to receive them in the
palace ?"
I shook my head, vowing that never again would I enter a city
without preparation. No one knew where to go or what to do. I
saw several of my commanders arguing with the Scholarians, who
did not know them, while ancient senators slipped and fell in
the slush. It was a mess, and a bad omen. Already I was handling
matters less well than Constantius.

[283]


I pulled myself together. "Prefect, while the senate meets, I shall
make sacrifice."
The prefect indicated Saint Sophia. "The bishop should be inside,
Augustus. If he's not, I can send for him."
"Sacrifice to the true gods," I said firmly.
"But . . . where ?" The poor man was bewildered, with good
reason. After all, Constantinople is a new city, dedicated to Jesus,
and there are no temples except for three small ones on the old
Byzantine acropolis. They would have to do. I motioned to those
members of my entourage who had got through the guards and
together we made a small ragged procession to the low hill where
stood the shabby and deserted temples of Apollo, Artemis and
Aphrodite.
In the dank filthy temple of Apollo, I gave thanks to Helios and
to all the gods, while the townspeople crowded round outside,
amused by this first show of imperial eccentricity. As I sacrificed,
I swore to Apollo that I would rebuild his temple.

Libanius: A few weeks ago the Emperor Theodosius gave the temple
of Apollo to his praetorian prefect, as a coach house !

]ulian Augustus
I then sent Mamertinus, as consul-designate, to tell the senate
that I should not address them until ~ January, out of deference
to my predecessor, whose body was already on its way to
the city for interment. Through a now gusty blizzard, I made
my way to the palace, entering through the Chalk~ Gate, whose
vestibule is covered with a bronze roof. Just over the gate, I noticed
a new painting of Constantine. He is shown with his three sons.
At their feet, a dragon, javelin in its side, sinks into the pit: the
true gods slain. Above the emperor's head is a cross. A nice coat of
whitewash should do the trick.
On either side of the gate, the ScholarJan Guards are quartered.
They saluted smartly. I ordered their commander to house and feed
my military retinue. Then I crossed the inner court and entered
the main part of the palace. In the great hall I found Eusebius with
his eunuchs, notaries, slaves, secret agents, at least two hundred
men and half-men, all waiting for me in a room which was as
bright and as warm as a surnmer's day. I have never seen so richly
dressed a group in my life, nor smelled so much expensive perfume.
I stood in the doorway and shook snow from my cloak as a

[284]



dog shakes water from his back. All present fell to the floor with
exquisite grace, and Eusebius humbly kissed the hem of my robe.
I looked down for one long moment at that large body which
resembled one of those African beasts Egypt sends us for the
games. Eusebius glittered with jewels and smelled of lilies. This was
the creature who had tried to destroy me, as he had destroyed my
brother.
"Get up, Chamberlain," I said briskly. I motioned for the others
to do the same. With some difficulty, Eusebius got to his feet. He
looked at me shyly, with appealing eyes. Though he was terrified,
years of training at court and a consummate skill at negotiating
served him well; not once did his voice falter nor his poise desert
him.
"Lord," he whispered, "all is in readiness. The bedrooms, the
kitchens, the rooms of assembly, the robes, the jewels . . ."
"Thank you, Chamberlain."
"An inventory will be presented to the Lord of the World to-
morrow."
"Good, and now . . ."
"Whatever he wishes, our Lord need only command." The voice
that whispered in my ear was confiding and intimate.
I stepped away from him. "Show me my apartments."
Eusebius clapped his hands. The hall emptied. I followed the
eunuch up white marble stairs to the second floor, where, through
latticed windows, one can see the splendid gardens which descend
in shallow terraces to the sea of Marmora. Off to the right is the
mansion of the Persian Prince Ormisda who defected to us in 323,
as well as the group of small buildings or pavilions known as the
Daphne Palace; here the emperors hold audience.
It was strange to be in Constantius's rooms. I was particularly
moved when I saw the inlaid silver bed where my cousin had slept,
and no doubt dreamed uneasily of me. Now he is gone and the
room is mine. I wonder: who will sleep here after me ? My reverie
was interrupted by Eusebius, who cleared his throat nervously. I
looked at him blankly. Then I said, "Tell Oribasius I want to see
him."
"Is that at1, Lord ?"
"That is all, Chamberlain."
Face grave and perfectly controlled, Eusebius withdrew. That
evening he was arrested for high treason and sent to Chalcedon to
stand trial.

[283]


Together Oribasius and I explored the palace, to the consterna-
tion of the staff, who had never before seen an emperor stray from
the strict round prescribed for him by ceremonial. I was particu-
laxly interested in seeing the palace of Daphne. So Oribasius and
I, escorted by no more than a dozen guards, pounded on the door
of the little palace. A nervous eunuch opened it and showed us
into the throne room where, years before, I had seen Constantine
on a day when all our family was together; now all are dead but
me. The room was as splendid as I remembered, including, I'm
afraid, the jewel-encrusted cross which covers the entire ceiling.
I should like to remove it, but traditionalists argue that no matter
what the state's religion it should be kept simply because my uncle
put it there. Perhaps they are right.
The old eunuch who had shown us into the room said that he
remembered the day I was presented to my uncle.
"You were a handsome child, Lord, and we knew even then
that you would be our master." Naturally !
We also explored the banquet hall, with its arched triklinos at
one end where, on a dais, the imperial family dine. The floor is
particularly handsome, inlaid with different-coloured marbles from
every province of the empire. While we were gaping like country-
folk, the Master of the Offices appeared, accompanied by a tall
lean officer. After gently chiding me for having escaped him, the
Master indicated the officer, a commander of cavalry named Jovian.
"He has iust arrived, Augustus, with the sacred remains of the
Lord Constantius."
Jovian saluted me; he is a good-humoured unintelligent man who
serves with me now in Persia. I thanked him for his efforts and
assigned him to temporary duty with the $cholarians. I then called
a Consistory where, among other matters, we planned the funeral
of Constantius. It was the last ceremony the eunuchs conducted
and I am happy to say it went off without a hitch. He had loved
them; they loved him. It was fitting that their last task at court
should have been the funeral of their patron.
Constantius's funeral was held in what the Galileans call the
Church of the Holy Apostles, which is situated on the fourth of
the city's hills. Just back of the basilica, Constantine had put up a
round mausoleum, much like the one of Augustus at Rome. Here
lie his remains, and those of his three sons. May the earth rest
lightly on them.
To my surprise, I was quite moved at the funeral of my life's

[286]



enemy. For one thing, since I am celibate, our line ends with Con-
stantius. But that's not quite true: his widow Faustina was then
pregnant. I saw her at a distance, heavily veiled among the
mourners. Several days later I granted her an audience
I received Faustina in Constantius's dressing-room, which I use
as an office because it is lined with cupboards originally built to
hold his many robes and tunics. I now use the cupboards for books.
When Faustina entered, I rose and greeted her as a kinswoman.
She knelt. I raised her up. I offered her a chair. We both sat.
Faustina is a vivacious woman, with a high arched Syrian nose,
blue-black hair and grey eyes, testament to some Gothic or Thes-
salian ancestor. She was clearly frightened, though I did my best
to put her at her ease.
"I hope you don't mind my receiving you here." I indicated the
row of tailor's dummies which still lined one wall, mute reminder
of the body they were intended to represent.
"Wherever my Lord chooses," she said formally. Then she
smiled. "Besides, I have never been inside the Sacred Palace
before."
"That's right. You were married at Antioch."
"Yes, Lord."
"I am sorry."
"It was the will of heaven."
I agreed that indeed it was. "Where will you live, Princess?"
I had decided to style her thus. "Augusta" would have been out
of the question.
"If it pleases my Lord, at Antioch. Quietly. In retirement. With
m7 family. Alone." She drcpped each phrase like a coin at my
feet.
"You may live wherever you please, Princess. After all, you are
my last kinswoman and . . ." As tactfully as possible, I indicated
her swelling stomach beneath black robes, "... you bear the
last child of our house. That is a great responsibility. Were it not
for you, the Flavians would come to an end."
For a moment, I saw fear and suspicion in the grey eyes; then
she lowered her head and a faint colour rose in her neck. "I hope,
Lord, you will have many children."
"None," I said flatly. "Your son - or daughter - alone must con-
tinue the line."
"When my husband was dying, he said that you would be just
and merciful, Lord."
[287]


"We understood each other," I said. But then I could not help
adding, "Up to a point.""I am free to go ?"
"You are perfectly free. Constantius's bequests to you shall be
honoured." I rose. "Let me know when the child is born." She
kissed the purple; and we parted.
I get regular reports on her from Antioch. She is thought to be
proud and difficult but not given to conspiracy. She dislikes me
for not allowing her the title of Augusta. Her child, incidentally,
turned out to be a girl, much to my relief. She is named Flavia
Maxima Faustina. It will be interesting to see what happens to
her.

Libanius: Flavia - or Constantia Posturea as we call her - is a lady
of the greatest charm, very like her mother, and a most intimate
friend of mine. She of course married the Emperor Gratian and
they reside now in Treyes. So the daughter became what her
mother did not, a reigning Augusta. Faustina is extraordinarily
proud of her daughter, though when I saw her last month she was
somewhat hurt at not having been invited to join the Empress in
the West. Apparently the thoughtful child felt that the journey
would be too taxing for her mother. Also, as I told Faustina:
children do tend to live their own lives and we must be tolerant.
I even loaned her the only copy I have of my little essay on "The
Duty to Parents". Which reminds me that she has not returned it.
As for the Emperor Gratian, he is everyone's hero, although
(alas ! ) he is a devout Christian. When he was raised to the princi-
pate, he refused the title of Pontilex Maximus, the first emperor
in our history to do so, a most ominous sign. As a matter of record,
last year when Gratian selected Theodosius to be Augustus of the
East, he gave his mother-in4aw Faustina the honorary title Augusta.
We were all tremendously pleased.

]ulian Augustus
When Faustina left, I sent for a barber. My hair had not been
cut since Gaul, and I was beginning to look quite savage, more
Pan than philosopher. I was studying the palace roster when what
looked like the Persian ambassador entered the room. I nearly got
to my feet, so awed was I by the spectacle: gold rings, jewelled
brooch, curled hair. But this was not an ambassador. This was the
barber. My response was weak. "I sent for a barber not a tax


collector," I said. But the man took this serenely, as an imperial
pleasantry.
He chattered freely. He told me that he had an annual salary,
paid by the treasury; he also earned twenty loaves of bread a day,
as well as fodder for twenty pack animals. Yet he felt himself
underpaid, he said, as he trimmed my bea~, gracefully deploring
the fact that I like it to come to a point. I held my tongue until he
had left; then I dictated a memorandum dismissing all barbers,
cooks, and other supernumeraries from my service.
I was engaged in this pleasant task when Oribasius joined me.
He listened with amusement while I roared and waved my arms,
getting more and more upset as I thought about the court I had
inherited. When I had finally run out of breath, Oribasius reported
that he had been exploring the barracks of the Scholarian Guards.
It seems that the men slept on śeather mattresses ! Their mess was
sumptuous, and their goblets were a good deal heavier than their
swords. As a sideline, some conducted a traffic in jewels, either
stolen or extorted from rich merchants whom they regularly
terrorized, demanding protection money. As if this were not bad
enough, the guardsmen had formed a glee club and regularly hired
themselves out to private parties where they sang love songs!
I'm afraid I was screaming with anguish by the time Oribasius
had finished. He always takes pleasure in arousing me, deliberately
adding detail to detail just to watch the veins in my forehead throb.
Then after he has roused me to a blind rage, he takes my pulse and
tells me that if I'm not careful I shall have a stroke. I will, too,
one day.
I was all for clearing out the barracks at once. But he thought
it would be better to do it gradually. "Besides, there is far worse
going on in the palace."
"Worse !" I raised my eyes to Helios. "I don't expect soldiers to
be philosophers. I know they steal. But singing love songs, feather
mattresses . . ."
"It's not the soldiers. It's the eunuchs." But he said nothing more,
indicating the secretaries. Sworn though they are to secrecy, one
must always be careful what one says in front of any witness.
"Later," Oribasius whispered.
We were suddenly aware of a great babble from below. The
Master of the Offices entered, breathing hard. "Lord, the Egyptian
delegation begs your presence, humbly, graciously . . ." At this
point the noise below began to sound like a riot.

[289]


"Is this usual, Master ?"
"No, Lord, but Egyptians . . ."
"... are noisy ?"
"Yes, Lord."
"And the praetorian prefect is unable to handle them ?"
"Exactly, Lord. He told them you could not see them and . . ."
There was a noise of breaking pottery, and a few high-pitched
screams.
"Are the Egyptians always like this, Master ?"
"Often, Lord."
Much amused, I followed the Master of the Offices downstairs
to the praetorian prefect's audience chamber. Just as I was about
to enter the hall, a half-dozen attendants appeared from nowhere.
One arranged my hair; another my beard; my cloak was redraped;
a diadem was set on my head. Then the Master of the Offices and
what was now a considerable retinue opened the doors and, feeling
rather like Constantius, I entered the prefect's chamber.
I should explain that Egyptians are easily the most tiresome of
my subjects, if one wishes to generalize . . . and who does not ?
Their bad reputation was not gained for nothing. They particularly
delight in litigation. Sometimes a family will conduct a lawsuit for
a century, simply for the pleasure of making trouble. This partic-
ular delegation had come to see Constantius in Antioch, but he was
gone before they arrived. They pursued him to the Springs, where
death mercifully saved him from them. Then, hearing that a new
emperor would soon be in Constantinople, they had come straight
to me. Their complaint ? A thousand suits against our government
in Egypt.
They swarmed about me - they were of every colour, from pale
Greek to black Numidian- and they all talked at once, quite un-
impressed by my greatness. The praetorian prefect looked at me
across the room; hopefully, he made the sign of the knife. But I
was more amused than offended.
With some difficulty, I got their attention. "Justice," I shouted,
"will be done each of you!" This occasioned both cheers and
groans. Apparently, some felt things were going much too easily.
"But," I said firmly, "no redress can be given here. Only at
Chalcedon, across the Bosphorus. That is where the treasury is,
where such matters are decided." I was now improvising quite
freely, to the amazement of the prefect. "You will all be taken
there at my expense." A rapturous sigh from the delegation. "And

[290]




tomorrow I shall join you and examine in detail each suit. If I find
any of you has been injured. I shall know what to do." There was
a pleased response, and I slipped out of the room.
The Master of the Offices was distressed. "But tomorrow is im-
possible ! And the treasury is here, not there."
"Get the whole lot of them to Chalcedon. Then tell the boat-
men that no Egyptian is to be brought back to the city."
For the first time I felt that I had earned the respect of the Master
of the Offices. The Egyptians stayed at Chalcedon a month, annoy-
ing the local officials. Then they went home.

?riscus: You will note that though Julian referred some while back
to the treason trials at Chalcedon and promised to discuss them,
he never mentions the subject again. Of course he did not have
the chance to go over any of these notes, but I am not sure that
even if he had caught the omission he would have been at all
candid. The whole business was shameful, and he knew it.
Arbetio arrested a dozen of Constantius's high officials. They
were all friends of Arbetio, but that did not prevent him from
charging each with high treason. Why ? Because any one of these
officers of state might have compromised him. Arbetio wanted to
be emperor; he had tried to persuade Eusebius to recognize him as
Constantius's heir. As a result, he was now a man with a purpose;
the covering of his own tracks.
Although Salutius Secundus was officially president of the court,
Arbetio was in charge. He was a tiger among sheep. Palladius, a
blameless official who had been chief marshal to the court, was
charged with having conspired against Gallus; on no evidence at
all, Palladius was exiled to Britain along with Florentius (a cham-
berlain, not our friend from Gaul). Also exiled- again on no
evidence-were Evagrius (former Count of the Privy Purse),
5aturninus (former Steward of the Sacred Household), Cyrinus (a
private secretary). Even more shocking was the exile of the consul
Taurus, whose only fault was that he had joined his rightful lord
Constantius when Julian marched into Illyricum. Public opinion
was particularly scandalized to read a proclamation which began,
"In the year of the consulate of Taurus and Florentius, Taurus was
found guilty of treason." That sort of thing is not done, except by
the most reckless of tyrants.
The praetorian prefect Florentius was condemned to death,
properly, I think. He did indeed try to destroy Julian, though if



one wanted to be absolutely just (and who does in political
matters?), he acted only upon Constantius's orders. Fortunately
for him, his trial was conducted in absentia. He had wisely dis-
appeared the day Constantius died and he did not reappear until
some months after Julian's death. He lived to a great age and died
at Milan, rich and contented. Some live to be old; some are struck
down too soon. lulian of course would have said it was inexorable
Fate, but I know better. It is nothing, absolutely nothing. There is
no design to any of it.
Paul "the chain", Mercurius "the count of dreams" and Gauden-
tius were all put to death, as was proper. Eusebius also was
executed, and his vast property reverted to the crown from which
he had stolen it.
Then the outrage occurred. Of all the public men in our timorous
time, Ursulus alone had the courage always to say what he thought
was right, despite consequences. He understood Arbetio perfectly.
He deplored the trials. He said so. To everyone's amazement,
Arbetio had Ursulus arrested.
The trial was an abomination. I am told by those who were
present that Ursulus tongue-lashed Arbetio, mocked his ambition,
dared the court to find him either disloyal to Julian or in any way
connected with Gallus's death. I say that I was "told" this because
I was not able to read about it: the records of the trial have
vanished. But I was able to talk frankly to Mamertinus, who had
been a horrified witness of this grim farce. He told me what hap-
pened, making no excuse for himself. Like all the rest, including
Julian, he was led by the wilful Arbetio, and must share in the
guilt.
Forged testimony was prepared against Ursulus, but the for-
geries were so clumsy that he was able to have them thrown out
as evidence. At this point even Arbetio might have given up, but
he had one last weapon in reserve. The trial was a military one,
held in the camp of two legions. Now Ursulus was supremely un-
popular with the army because of that bitter remark he made
when, surveying the ruins of Amida, he said, "See how bravely
our citizens are protected by those soldiers, whose pay is bankrupt-
ing us !"
Suddenly Arbetio threw this quotation in Ursulus's face. Immedi-
ately the officers and men who were present at the trial made a loud
racket, demanding Ursulus'~ head. They got it. He was executed
within the hour.

[292]




This was the talk of the city when I arrived in January. I ques-
tioned Julian about the trial; he was evasive. "I didn't know what
was happening. I put the whole thing in Salutius's hands. I was as
surprised as anyone."
"But they acted in your name . . ."
"Every village notary acts in my name. Am I responsible for all
injustice ?"
"But surely you had to give permission for the execution. Under
Roman law . . ."
"The military court acted on its own initiative. I didn't know."
"Then every member of the court was guilty of treason for
using your power of life and death illegally."
"The court was not illegal. They were duly constituted by
imperial edict . . ."
"Then they must have informed you before the execution and
if they did . . ."
"I did not know!" Julian was furious. I never mentioned the
subject again. But when we were in Persia he brought up the
matter, on his own. We had been talking about the idea of justice
when suddenly Julian said, "The hardest thing I ever did was to
allow a court to condemn an innocent man.""Ursulus ?"
He nodded. He had quite forgotten he had once told me that
he had known nothing of the Chalcedon proceedings. "The army
wanted him dead. There was nothing I could do. When the court
found him guilty of high treason - even though he was innocent -
I had to. let the sentence stand."
"To appease the army ? or Arbetio ?"
"Both. I was not sure of myself then. I needed every bit of SUl>
port I could get. But if that trial were today, I would free Ursulus
and indict Arbetio."
"But yesterday is not today, and Ursulus is dead."
"I'm sorry," said Julian, and that was the end of that chapter.
It is one of the few instances I know where Julian was weak and
in his weakness bad. But how might we have acted in his place ?
Differently ? I think not. One good thing: Julian did not confiscate
Ursulus's estate as law requires in the case of a traitor. The property
all went to the dead man's daughter.

Libanius: Priscus seems unduly sentimental in this matter. As he
himself admits, he did not study the transcript of the trial, so

[293]



Ursulus ? Unlike Priscus, I should never predict my own behaviou
in any circumstance until I knew precisely what the given fact
were. Is not all conduct based on this sort of empiricism ? or hay,
I misled three generations of pupils ?

]ulian Ausustus
I had heard all my life about what went on in the eunuctu
quarters of the Sacred Palace. But I tend to discount gossip, havin.
been myself the subject of so much, most of it fantastic. I conres
I did not really want any rumours confirmed, but Oribasius insiste,
that we see for ourselves. So I got myself up in a hooded robe whil
Oribasius disguised himself as a Syrian merchant with oiled ringlet
and glossy false beard.
Shortly before midnight, we left my apartment, by way of
private staircase. Outside the palace we found ourselves in a sma]
courtyard, bright with moonlight. Like shadowy conspirators, w
crossed to the opposite wing of the palace where the eunuchs an~
minor officials lived. We slipped inside the portico. At the thir~
door from the south, Oribasius stopped, and rapped three time~,
A muffled voice said, "What is the time ?"
"The time is ours," said Oribasius. This was the correct pas~,
word. The door opened just wide enough for us to enter. A dwar
greeted us and pointed to the dimly lit stairs. "They're jus
starting."
Oribasius gave him a coin. On the second-floor gallery deal
mute slaves showed us into what had been Eusebius's dining hal
It was almost as splendid as my own ! Against the walls of the root
some fifty eunuchs reclined on couches. They were so gorgeouslI
dressed that they looked like bales of silk on display. In front ~
each couch a table was set, piled with food. Even for an evenin
of what (in my innocence) I took to be music, the eunuchs neede
their food.
At one end of the room there were chairs and benches for wha
were known as "friends of the court". Here sat a number c
Scholarian officers, drinking heavily. I was completely mystifie
but dared not speak for fear someone would recognize my voic~
As Mardonius-that good eunuch-used to say: "Julian has n
lyre, only a brazen trumpet."
We sat down in the front row, next to a centurion of the He~
culani. He was already quite drunk. He nudged me in the ril~

[~9,~3



"Don't look so gloomy! And take that hood off, makes you look
like a dirty Christ-y!" This was considered high wit, and there
was a good deal of laughter at my expense. But the glib Oribasius
rescued me. "Poor fellow's from the country, doesn't dare show
his patched tunic." Oribasius's accent was pure Antioch. I was
most impressed.
"He part of the show ?" The centurion pushed his face close to
mine, his breath like the last dregs from a skin of wine. I pulled
back, hand to my hood.
"No," said Oribasius. "A friend of Phalaris." This impressed the
centurion, who left me alone. Oribasius whispered in my ear.
"Phalaris is our host. He's there. In the centre." Phalaris was large
and sullen, with a pursed mouth. I knew that I had seen him before,
but I could not place him. Oribasius explained. "He's in charge
of the kitchen. Which makes him - now that Eusebius is dead -
the richest man at court."
I sighed. The emperor is hugely robbed by his servants.
Cymbals were struck. A long line of Scholarians filed into the
room. They halted before Phalaris and gave him a parody of the
imperial salute. I started angrily to my feet, but Oribasius held
me back. With a gesture quite as majestic as any of Constantius's,
Phalaris acknowledged the salute. The soldiers then took their
places against the wall and, at a signal from their leader, they sang
a love song ! But there was worse to come.
Fifty shabbily dressed youths entered the hall. They moved
awkwardly and seemed not to know what to do until a Scholarian
shoved one of them to his knees in front of Phalaris; all followed
suit. The eunuch then motioned for them to sit on the floor directly
in front of us. I was completely baffled. These youths were
obviously not entertainers. They looked like ordinary workmen of
the sort one sees in every city, hanging about the arcades, eyeing
women.
Next, the same number of young girls were herded into the room.
All around me the "friends of the court" breathed satisfaction. The
girls were uncommonly pretty, and terrified. After a slow tour of
the hall, they were ordered to sit on the floor beside the young
men. They too wore ordinary clothes, which meant that they
were neither prostitutes nor entertainers. I saw that the eunuchs
were studying the girls with almost as much interest as were the
men about me. I thought this surprising, but Oribasius assures
me that the desire for women remains cruelly strong in eunuchs,
[295]



especially in those gelded after puberty. Incapacity does not pre-
vent lust.
Musicians appeared and played while a troupe of Syrian cotylists
danced. I suppose they were good. They moved violently, made
astonishing leaps in the air, did lewd things with the cups which
are a part of their "art". While all eyes watched them, I tapped
the shoulder of the boy who sat just in front of me. He gave a
nervous start, and turned around, pale with fright. He had the
fair skin and grey eyes of Macedonia. His hands were large and
callused, the nails black with soot. I took him to be a metal-
worker's apprentice, at the most eighteen years old.
"Sir ?" His light voice cracked with tension.
"Why are you here ?"
"I don't know, sir."
"But how did you get here ?"
"They . . ." He motioned to the Scholarians. "I was coming
home from the silver market, where I work, and they stopped me
and made me go with them.""Did they tell you why ?"
"No, sir. They won't kill us, will they ?" There is no terror to
equal that of the ignorant in a strange place.
"No," I said firmly. "They won't hurt you."
The Syrian dancers were followed by what looked to be priest-
esses of the Egyptian cult of Syra. Though I recognized many of
the ritual gestures, I suspect that these women were not actually
priestesses but prostitutes, imitating the sacred erotic dances. It
was, after all, a night of travesty. Every stage of the mysteries was
acted out, including the ceremony of abundance with its wooden
phalluses. This last brought loud applause from the "friends of the
court", and ecstatic sighs and giggles from the eunuchs. Though
the cult of Syra does not much appeal to me, I was offended to see
its mysteries profaned.
After the "priestesses" had finished their dance, several burly
Scholarians motioned for the girls and youths to parade in pairs
before the reclining eunuchs, much the way young people stroll
on feast days in provincial towns. For some minutes they moved,
tense, self-conscious, trapped. Then Phalaris motioned for a par-
ticular girl and youth to approach him. This was a signal for the
other eunuchs to choose pairs. They did so, hissing like angry
geese.
Suddenly Phalaris reached up and tore the girl's dress at the

[296]



shoulder; it fell to her knees. Those about me gasped with excite-
ment. I was too stunned to move. When the girl tried to pull her
dress back in place, Phalaris tugged at it again and this time the
cheap material split and came away in his hand. Like a sacrifice,
she stood, naked, arms crossed on her breast. Phalaris then turned
to the boy and lifted up his tunic as far as the belly. Loud laughter;
the youth wore nothing underneath. Phalaris then pulled both girl
and boy, the one pale and the other red with embarrassment, on to
the couch, his fat arms girdling each.
Meanwhile, the other eunuchs had stripped their terrified prey.
None resisted, although one young man, inadvertently shying from
a eunuch's grasp, was cracked hard across the buttocks by the flat
of a Schotarian's sword. The rest submitted.
As I watched, I had the sense of having witnessed something
similar. This monstrous scene contained a bafflingly familiar
element. Not until days later did I recall what it was: children
opening presents. The eunuchs were like greedy children. They
tore the clothes off their victims in the same way children tear
wrappings from a gift, passionately eager to see what is inside.
Stubby eunuch fingers explored the strange bodies as though they
were toys; they were particularly fascinated by the sex, male and
female. Imagine fifty huge babies allowed people for playthings
and one can begin to apprehend what I saw that night.
I might have sat there for ever, turned to astonished stone, if I
had not noticed the boy I had talked to earlier. He was stretched
across a eunuch's lap while a frightened girl poured dippers of
honey over his belly, the eunuch fondling him all the while, pre-
paratory to heaven alone knew what vice. That was enough.
I had got as far as the centre of the room when one of the
Scholarians grabbed me roughly by the shoulder. The hood fell
back from my head. One look at my face was enough. The music
stopped, instrument by instrument. No one moved. No one spoke.
Only the young people stared at me dumbly and without interest.
I motioned to a tribune who sat on the first row. He was the highest-
ranking officer present. Trembling, he saluted me. I indicated the
boys and girls and in a low voice that only he could hear, I said,
"Send them home." Then I pointed to Phalaris. "Arrest the eunuchs.
Confine all Scholarians present to barracks." In a silence as com-
plete as any I have ever heard, Oribasius and I left the banquet
hall.
Oribasius feels that I took the entire thing too seriously because

[297]



where the human body was revealed, particularly public baths.
I think what most distressed him about the behaviour of the
eunuchs was the knowledge that not only had he the power to do
the same but that he wanted to. This recognition of his own nature
horrified him. Note that as he lingers over the scene, what most
strikes him is not so much the demonstration of lust but the power
to do what one likes with another, and that other not a slave but
free. Our Julian- like all of us- had a touch of Tiberius in him,
and he hated it.
For twenty years now I have been haunted by one detail, the
pouring of honey on the genitals of the smith's apprentice. What
exactly was the eunuch's plan ? What was the girl supposed to
do? And why honey? I have theories of course, but I shall never
know for certain since Julian ended the party much too soon. I
am confident of one thing: the eunuch was a cook and accustomed
to basting game birds with honey. He was obviously reverting to
habit.

Libanius: The lechery of Priscus is an unexpected development
of his senescence. I am not aware of any "touch of Tiberius" in
myself, rather the contrary.

[299]



XVI~-

Julian Augustus
C~nstantius seldom addressed the senate for the excellent reason
that he could not speak for any length of time without stammering
or making some error in logic or grammar. As a result, he almost
never set foot in the senate house. He preferred to summon the
senate to the throneroom in the Daphne Palace where he could
address them informally, on those rare occasions when he dealt
with them at all.
I returned to the old ways, imitating Augustus, who was content
to be first citizen. On I January I walked across the square to
attend the senate merely as a member. The conscript fathers
affected to be pleased by my gesture, and for the remaining
months that I was in the city I often attended their sessions. I don't
need to add that whenever I did, I always spoke!
It is customary for new consuls taking office to sponsor games
and entertainments. Mamertinus gave us three days of chariot
races in the Hippodrome which I attended as a courtesy to him. I
found the races interminable but I enjoyed the crowds. They
always greeted me with an ear-splitting roar, and I was told that
not once in twenty-five years had Constantius evoked such an
affectionate response. Since several people told me this perhaps it
is true and not mere flattery.
While attending the first day's races, I examined with some
interest the various works of art Constantius had placed along
the centre of the track: obelisks, columns, bronze memorials. One
of them is particularly beautiful: three bronze snakes intertwine
to form a tall column upon which a golden tripod supports a
golden bowl dedicated by the Greeks to Apollo at Delphi as a
thanksgiving for their victory over Persia. Constantine stole even
the holiest of relics to decorate his city. One day I shall send them
all back to their original homes. But thinking of Delphi gave me an
idea. I turned to Oribasius. "We should consult the oracle."
"Which oracle ?" Oribasius maintains that between soothsayers,
oracles and sacrifices, I have terrified the future into submission.
"Delphi. The only oracle."
"Does it still exist?"

[300]




"Find out."
Oribasius laughed. "Shall I go now, before the games are over ?"
"No. But you want to visit Greece anyway. If you do, visit the
oracle and consult the Pythoness."
So it was agreed. We were wondering what form my question
to the oracle should take, when a number of slaves were brought
forward to receive their freedom. This is an ancient custom, to
celebrate the new year and the accession of new consuls. The
slaves lined up before the imperial box and I eagerly said the legal
formula which made them free. There was a startled gasp from
the crowd. I was bewildered. Mamertinus who sat on my right
was much amused. "Augustus, the consul is supposed to free the
slaves, just as the consul gives the games." Greatly embarrassed, I
shouted to the people, "I hereby fine myself ten pounds of gold
for usurping the consul's function !" This was received with much
laughter and cheering, and I think it made a good impression.

On ,~ February 362 I declared religious freedom in the world.
Anyone could worship any god in any way he chose. The cult of
the Galileans was no longer the state's religion, nor were Galilean
priests exempt from paying taxes and the usual municipal duties.
I also recalled all the bishops who had been sent into exile by
Constantius. I even allowed the terrible Athanasius to return to
Alexandria, though I did not mean for him to be bishop again.
Among those who returned from exile was Aetius, who had given
a good report of me to Gallus. I shall always be grateful to him.
Soon after I had taken possession of the capital, I was faced
with a most disagreeable crisis. My old teacher Bishop George had
finally succeeded Athanasius as bishop of Alexandria. Not surpris-
ingly, George proved to be an unpopular prelate. He was high-
handed and arbitrary with everyone. Matters came to a head when
he destroyed a Mithraeum, saying that he intended to build a
charnel house on its foundation. When our brothers rightfully pro-
tested this sacrilege, he retaliated by displaying all sorts of human
skulls and bones as well as obscene objects, declaring falsely that
he had found these "'proofs" of human sacrifice buried in the
Mithraeum. It was an ugly business.
George also incurred the wrath of the Athanasians by his single-
minded persecution of all those who had followed the teachings of
the bishop. The Alexandrians could not endure him. When word

[~o~]



finally came that his protector Constantius was dead, the mob
stormed the bishop's palace and murdered George; his body was
then tied to a camel and dragged through the city to the beach,
where it was burned and the ashes thrown into the sea. This haly
pened on 24 December. When I heard about it, I wrote the people
of the city a harsh letter, threatening reprisals. Their officials were
most apologetic and promised to keep the peace. Not long after,
Athanasius appeared in the city with a great mob of fanatics and
resumed his old place as bishop. Almost his first gesture was to
"baptize" the wife of my governor. This was too much. I banished
Athanasius, making it clear that a return from exile did not mean
a return to power for deposed bishops, especially those who are
resourceful enemies of Hellenism.
At about this time I acquired George's library, easily one of the
best in Asia. I am rather sentimental about that library, for his
were the actual books which had shaped my own mind. I am
travelling at this moment with George's set of Plotinus. The rest
of the books I left at Constantinople as a nucleus for the Julian
library.
The śdict of 4 February had a good effect, though there was
much complaint from the Arian bishops, who felt that by allow-
ing their Athanasian brethren to return, I was ensuring doctrinal
quarrels which would inevitably weaken the Galilean organiza-
tion. śxactly! They are now at one another's throats. I have also
insisted that all lands and buildings which over the years the
Galileans seized from us be restored. I realize that this will cause
some hardship, but there is no other way of getting the thing done.
I am quite prepared for trouble.
On 22 February I issued another edict, reserving to myself
alone the right to use the public transport. The bishops, hurrying
here and there at the state's expense, had wrecked the system.
Note: At this point list all edicts for the year, as well as govern-
ment appointments. They are of course on permanent file at the
Record Officej but even so one must be thorough. Meanwhile, I
want only to touch on the high points of those six months in
Constantinople.

Late in February I learned, quite by accident, that Vettius
Agorius Praetextatus and his wife were in the city. He is the leader
of the Hellenist party at Rome while his wife, Aconia Paulina, has

[302]




been admitted to every mystery available to women as well as
being high priestess of Hecate. I was eager to meet them.
Praetextatus is a slight, frail man, with flowing white hair and
delicate small features. His wife is somewhat taller than her hus-
band and as red-faced and robust as a Gaul, though she is of the
purest Roman stock. They are most enthusiastic at what I am
doing, particularly Aconia Paulina. "We have had a remarkable
response at our temple of Hecate. Truly remarkable. And all due
to you. Why, last year in Rome we could hardly get anyone to
undergo initiation but now . . . well, I have received reports
from Milan, Alexandria, Athens... everywhere, that the
women are flocking to us! We are second only to Isis in enrol-
ment, and though I am devoted to the Isis cult (in fact, I am an
initiate, second degree), I think Hecate has always drawn a better
class of women. I only hope we shall be able to open a temple
right here."
"You shall! You shall!" I was delighted. "I want every god
represented in the capital!"
Aconia Paulina beamed. Praetextatus smiled gravely. "Every
day," he said softly, "every waking hour, we pray for your
success."
For at least an hour the three of us celebrated that unity' which
only those who have been initiated into the mysteries can know.
We were as one. Then I got down to business.
"If we are to defeat the Gallleans we must, very simply, have
a comparable organization."
Praetextatus was dubious. "We have often discussed this at
Rome, and until recently we thought we were at least holding our
own. At heart, Rome is anti-Christian. The senate is certainly
Hellenist." He paused and looked out of the window, as though
searching for Zeus himself in the rain clouds rolling in from the
sea. "You see, Augustus, we are not one organization like the
Galileans. We are many. Also, we are voluntary. We do not have
the support of the government . . .""You do now."
"... now, yes, but is now too late? Also, our appeal is
essentially to the individual, at least in the mysteries. Each man
who is initiated undergoes the experience alone. At Eleusis it is the
single soul which confronts eternity."
"But there is also the sense of fellowship with other initiates!
Look at us ! You and I are brothers in Mithras . . ."

[3o3]



"That is not the same thing as belonging to an open congrega-
tion, our conduct governed by priests who are quite as interested
in property and political power as they are in religion."
"I agree." I tapped the papers in front of me. "And I surest
we fight them on their own ground. I plan a world priesthood,
governed by the Roman Pontifex Maximus. We shall divide the
world into administrative units, the way the Galileans have done -
and each diocese will have its own hierarchy of priests under a
single high priest, responsible to me."
They were impressed. Aconia Paulina wanted to know if
cults would be represented in the priesthood. I said yes. Every god
and goddess known to the people, no matter in what guise or
under what strange name, would be worshipped, for multiplicity
is the nature of life. We all believe -even the Galileans, despite
their confused doctrine of trinity- that there is a single Godhead
from which all life, divine and mortal, descends and to which all
life must return. We may not know this creator, though his out-
ward symbol is the sun. But through intermediaries, human and
divine, he speaks to us, shows us aspects of himself, prepares us
for the next stage of the journey. "To find the father and maker of
all is hard," as Socrates said. "And having found him it is impos-
sible to utter him." Yet as Aeschylus wrote with equal wisdom,
"men search out god and searching find him." The ~earch is the
whole point to philosophy and to the religious experience. It is a
part of the Galilean impiety to proclaim that the search ended
three hundred years ago when a young rabbi was executed for
treason. But according to Paul of Tarsus, Jesus was no ordinary
rabbi nor even messiah; he was the One GOd himself who rose from
the dead in order to judge the world immediately. In fact, Jesus is
quoted as having assured his followers that some of them would
still be alive when the day of judging arrived. But one by one the
disciples died in the natural course and we are still waiting for
that promised day. Meanwhile, the bishops amass property,
persecute one another, and otherwise revel in this life, while the
state is weakened and on our borders the barbarians gather like
winter wolves, waiting for us to stagger in our weakness, and to
fall. I see this as plainly as I see my hand as it crosses the page
(for this part I do not entrust to any secretary). To stop the chariot
as it careers into the sun, that is what I was born t~ do.
I explained my plans to Praetextatus. Some I have already put
into effect. Others must wait until I return from Persia.

[~o4]




The failure of Hellenism has been, largely, a matter of organiza-
tion. Rome never tried to impose any sort of worship upon the
countries it conquered and civilized; in fact, quite the contrary.
Rome was eclectic. All religions were given an equal opportunity
and even Isis- after some resistance- was worshipped at Rome.
As a result we have a hundred important gods and a dozen mys-
teries. Certain rites are - or were - supported by the state because
they involved the genius of Rome. But no attempt was ever made
to co-ordinate the worship of Zeus on the Capitol with, let us say,
the Vestals who kept the sacred fire in the old forum. As time
passed our rites became, and one must admit it bluntly, merely
form, a reassuring reminder of the great age of the city, a token
gesture to the old gods who were thought to have founded and
guided Rome from a village by the Tiber to world empire. Yet
from the beginning, there were always those who mocked. A
senator of the old Republic once asked an augur how he was able
to get through a ceremony of divination without laughing. I am
not so light-minded, though I concede that many of our rites have
lost their meaning over the centuries; witness those temples at
Rome where certain verses learned by rote are chanted year in
and year out, yet no one, including the priests, knows what they
mean, for they are in the early language of the Etruscans, long
since forgotten.
As the religious forms of the state became more and more rigid
and perfunctory, the people were drawn to the mystery cults,
many of them Asiatic in origin. At Eleusis or in the various caves
of Mithras, they were able to get a vision of what this life can be,
as well as a foretaste of the one that follows. There are, then,
three sorts of religious experiences. The ancient rites, which are
essentially propitiatory. The mysteries, which purge the soul and
allow us to glimpse eternity. And philosophy, which attempts to
define not only the material world but to suggest practical ways to
the good life, as well as attempting to synthesize (as Iamblichos
does so beautifully) all true religion in a single comprehensive
system.
Now into this most satisfactory-at least potentially-of
worlds, came the Galileans. They base their religion on the idea
of a single god, as though that were a novelty: from Homer to
Julian, Hellenes have been monotheist. Now this single god,
according to the largest of the Galilean sects, sent his son (con-
ceived of a virgin, like so many other Asiatic gods) to preach to

[~o~]



the world, to suffer, to rise from the dead, to judge mankind on a
day which was supposed to have dawned more than three hun-
dred years ago. Now I have studied as carefully as any bishop the
writings of those who knew the Galilean, or said they did. They
are composed in bad Greek, which I should have thought would
have been enough to put off any educated man, while the story
they tell is confused, to say the least (following Porphyry I
have discovered some sixty-four palpable contradictions and
absurdities).
The actual life story of the Galilean has vanished. But I have had
an interesting time trying to piece it together. Until thirty years
ago, the archives at Rome contained a number of contemporary
reports on his life. They have since disappeared, destroyed by
order of Constantine. It is of course an old and bitter ioke that the
Nazarene himself was not a Christian. He was something quite
else. I have talked to antiquarians who knew about the file in the
archives; several had either read it or knew people who had. Jesus
was, simply, a reforming Jewish priest, exclusive as the Jews are,
with no interest in proselytizing outside the small world of the
Jews. His troubles with Rome were not religious (when did Rome
ever persecute anyone for religious belief?) but political. This
Jesus thought he was the messiah. Now the messiah is a sort of
Jewish hero who, according to legend, will one day establish a
Jewish empire prior to the end of the world. He is certainly aor
a god, much less the One God's son. The messiah has been the sub-
ject of many Jewish prophecies, and Jesus carefully acted out each
prophetic requirement in order to make himself resemble this hero
(the messiah would enter Jerusalem on an ass; so did he, et cetera).
But the thing went wrong. The people did not support him. His
god forsook him. He turned to violence. With a large band of
rebels, he seized the temple, announcing that he had come with
a sword. What his God would not do for him he must do for him-
self. So at the end he was neither a god nor even the Jewish messiah
but a rebel who tried to make himself king of the Jews. Quite
correctly, our governor executed him.
We must never forget that in his own words, Jesus was a Jew
who believed in the Law of Moses. This means he could not be
the son of God (the purest sort of blasphemy), much less God him-
self, temporarily earthbound. There is nothing in the book of the
Jews which prepares us for a messiah's kinship with Jehovah. Only
by continual reinterpretation and convenient "revelations" have

[306]



the Galileans been able to change this reformer-rabbi's career into
a parody of one of our own gods, creating a passion of death and
rebirth quite inconceivable to one who kept the Law of Moses...
not to mention disgusting to us who have worshipped not men
who were executed in time but symbolic figures like Mithras and
Osiris and Adonis whose literal existence does not matter but
whose mysterious legend and revelation are everything.
The moral preachings of the Galilean, though often incoherently
recorded, are beyond criticism. He preaches honesty, sobriety,
goodness, and a kind of asceticism. In other words, he was a quite
ordinary Jewish rabbi, with Pharisee tendencies. In a crude way
he resembles Marcus Aurelius. Compared to Plato or Aristotle, he
is a child.
It is the wonder of our ~ge how this simple-minded provincial
priest was so extraordinarily transformed into a god by Paul of
Tarsus, who outdid all quacks and cheats that ever existed any-
where. As Porphyry wrote so sharply in the last century, "The
gods have declared Christ to have been most pious; he has become
immortal and by them his memory is cherished. Whereas, the
Christians are a polluted set, contaminated and enmeshed in
error." It is even worse now. B7 the time Constantine, Constantius
and the horde of bishops got through with Jesus, little of his
original message was left. Every time they hold a synod they move
further away from the man's original teaching. The conception of
the triple god is their latest masterpiece.
One reason why the Galileans grow ever more powerful and
dangerous to us is their continual assimilation of our rites and
holy days. Since they rightly regard Mithraism as their chief rival,
they have for some years now been taking over various aspects
of the Mithraic rite and incorporating them into their own cere-
monies. Some critics believe that the gradual absorption of our
forms and prayers is fairly recent. But I date it from the very
beginning. In at least one of the biographies of the Gallleans there
is a strange anecdote which his followers are never able to explain
(and they are usually nothing if not ingenious at making sense
of nonsense). The Galilean goes to a fig tree to pick its fruit. But
as it is not the season for bearing, the tree was barren. In a fit of
temper, the Galilean blasts the tree with magic, killing it. Now
the fig tree is sacred to Mithras: as a youth, it was his home, his
source of food and clothing. I suggest that the apologist who wrote
that passage in the first century did so deliberately, inventing it
[so7]



or recording it, no matter which, as a sign that the Galilean would
destroy the worship of Mithras as easily as he had destroyed the
sacred tree.
But I do not mean here in the pages of what is supposed to be
a chronicle to give my familiar arguments against the Galileans.
They may be found in the several essays I have published on the
subject.
Praetextatus and I -worked closely together all that winter in
Constantinople. I found both him and his wife enormously know-
ledgeable on religious matters. But whenever I spoke of practical
matters, Praetextatus would lose interest. So rtuite alone, I set
about reorganizing . . . no, organizing Hellenism. The Galileans
have received much credit for giving charity to anyone who asks
for it. We are now doing the same. Their priests impress the
ignorant with their so-called holy lives. I now insist that our
priests be truly holy. I have given them full instructions on how
to comport themselves in public and private. Though Praetextatus
lacked inspiration, he worked diligently with me on these plans.
But Aconia was no help at all. She does not, as the saying goes,
grow on one. I am afraid that her only interest is her own salva-
tion. She regards religion as a sort of lottery, and if she takes a
chance on each of the gods, the law of averages ought to favour
her to pick the right one who will save her soul. Though what
eternity would want with Aconia Paulina, I don't know.

Priscus: Bravo Julian !
Though Julian makes no mention of it, at about this time our old
friend Maximus made his triumphant entry into Constantinople. I
was not there when he arrived, but I certainly heard enough about
it. When he became emperor, Julian invited every philosopher and
magician in the empire to court. And just about all of them came.
Only his Christian "friends" stayed away. Basil was being holy in
Cappadocia; I don't think Gregory was invited. It might be interest-
ing to check the Record Office about Gregory because I seem to
recall a most flattering letter he wrote Julian at about this time,
but perhaps I dreamed it . . . Only last week I called Hippia by
my mother's name, after half a century of marriage! I am of
course losing my mind. But why not ? When death comes, it will
have nothing to take but a withered sack of bones, for the memory
of Priscus, which is Priscus, will long since have flown.
Several times, Julian tried to get Maximus to leave Ephesus and

[308]



come to Gaul, but the omens were never right. I'm sure they
weren't! Maximus was not about to ally himself to what most
people thought would be the losing side of a rebellion. But when
an invitation finally came from the Sacred Palace, Maximus was
ready. He arrived in Constantinople while Julian was at the senate
house. Incidentally, Julian was in his element with that body,
though l'm not sure they enjoyed him as much as he did them.
The senate usually cannot master a quorum. But with an emperor
present, the senate chamber threatened to burst. The conscript
fathers sat on one another's laps while Julian joked, prayed,
exhorted and, all in all, got quite a lot of work done, for there
was nothing which he did not concern himself with.
During the six months he was at Constantinople, Julian built
a harbour at the foot of the palace. He exempted all men with
thirteen children or more from paying taxes: he was much con-
cerned at our declining birthrate. I can't think why. It is not as if
there were not too many people on earth as it is and to make more
of them will simply dilute the breed. But he was disturbed by the
fact that the barbarians increase in numbers while we decrease.
He also confirmed our old friend Sallust as praetorian prefect of
Gaul, though he clearly would have liked to have him close by.
He made this personal sacrifice because there was no one else he
could trust to protect the West, and he was right, as each year
confirms. Today Gaul is still secure while the Goths are now just
a few days' march from this house in Athens where'I sit, writing
of old things, and remembering more than I thought.
Julian was in the middle of an impassioned speech when
Maximus appeared in the door of the senate chamber. The great
"philosopher" was dressed in green silk robes covered with
cabalistic designs; his long grey beard was perfumed and his shaggy
eyebrows were carefully combed- I've actually seen him comb
them to give the effect of two perfect arches. He carried his magic
staff carved from dragon's bone, or some such nonsense. The
senators were shocked, for no one but a senator may enter during
session; certainly, no one may enter when the emperor is speaking.
But Julian, seeing Maximus, stopped in mid-sentence and ran, arms
outstretched, to embrace that old charlatan. I'm glad I was not
there.
Julian then presented Maximus to the senate, calling him the
world's wisest and holiest man and stressing what an honour it was
for all present to be able to do homage to such a man. Needless to
[~o9]



say, everyone was scandalized. Maximus and his wife were given
an entire wing of the Sacred Palace for their own court; and there
were now two emperors in Constantinople. Maximus's wife did a
considerable business on her own as a sort of unofficial Master of
the Offices, arranging audiences with the Emperor and granting
petitions. They made a fortune in those months. They were a rare
couple.
Though I am not in the habit of laughing at anyone's death, I
still chuckle to myself when I think of her death. Do you know
the story ? After the Persian campaign when Maximus was first in
trouble, he decided to commit suicide. His wife agreed that this
was the correct thing to do. She also insisted on killing herself.
With her usual brisk efficiency, she put their affairs in order;
bought poison and composed farewell letters of enormous length.
Then, gravely, they said good-bye to one another. She drank first
and promptly died. Maximus lost his nerve, and survived. To this
day I find myself smiling whenever I think of that preposterous
couple.

Julian Augustus
At the beginning of April, for my own amusement, I summoned
the bishops to the palace. After all, I am Pontifex Maximus and
all religion is my province, though I would not have the temerity
to say to any priests what Constantius said to the bishops at the
synod of Milan in 3~;5: "My will shall be your guiding line !"
I received the Galileans in the Daphne Palace. I wore the diadem
and I held the orb. (Galileans are always impressed by the ritual
show of power.) It was a remarkable occasion. Nearly a thousand
bishops were present, including those whom I had recalled from
exile. As a result, there are often two bishops for one see. This
makes for much bitter wrangling. They are not gentle, these priests
of the Nazarene.
At first the bishops were afraid of me, but I put them at their
ease. I told them that I was not a persecutor, though others before
me had been, not all of them emperors. This was directed at several
militant bishops who had, by violence, destroyed their enemies.
"No one," I said, "shall ever be hurt by me because of his faith."
There was a general easing of tension. But they were still wary.
"Of course I should like to convince you that I am right. But since
what is true is as plain as the sun, if you will not see it, you will
not see it. But I cannot allow you to hurt others, as you have done

[~o]




for so many years. I will not list the crimes you have committed,
or permitted. The murders, the thieving, the viciousness more
usual to the beasts of the field than to priests, even of the wrong
god."
I held up a thick sheaf of documents. "Here are your latest
crimes. Murders requested, and property requested... oh, how
you love the riches of this world ! Yet your religion preaches that
you should not resist injury or go to law or even hold property,
much less steal it ! You have been taught to consider nothing your
own, except your place in the other and better world. Yet you
wear jewels, rich robes, build huge basilicas, all in this world, not
the next. You were taught to despise money, yet you amass it.
When done an iniury, real or imagined, you were told not to re-
taliate, that it was wrong to return evil for evil. Yet you battle
with one another in lawless mobs, torturing and killing those you
disapprove of. You have endangered not only the true religion but
the security of the state whose chief magistrate I am, by heaven's
will. You are not worthy even of the Nazarene. If you cannot live
by those precepts which you are willing to defend with the knife
and with poison" (a reference to the poisoning of Arius by
Athanasius), "what are you then but hypocrites.~"
All through this there had been mumbling. Now there was a fine
Galilean eruption. They began to shout and rant, shaking their fists
not only at me - which is treason - but at one another - which is
folly, for they ought to be united against the common enemy. I
tried to speak but I could not be heard, and my voice can be heard
by an entire army out-of-doors! The tribune of the Scholarians
looked alarmed, but I motioned to him to do nothing.
Finally, like the bull of Mithras, I bellowed, "The Franks and
Germans listened when I spoke !" This had a quieting effect. They
remembered where they were.
I was then all mildness. I apologized for having spoken harshly.
It was only because I had such respect for the words of the
Nazarene, as well as for the strict law of the Jews which he - as a
Jew- sought only to extol. This caused a slight but brief murmur.
! then said that I was willing to give the Nazarene a place among
the gods between Isis and Dionysos, but that no man who had the
slightest reverence for the unique creator of the universe could
possibly conceive that this provincial wonder-worker could have
been the creator himself. Before they could start their monkey-
chatter, I spoke quickly and loudly, "Yet I am willing to believe he

[3II]



is a manifestation of the One, a healer, much like Asklepios, and
as such, I am willing to honour him."
I then repeated what I had written in the Edict of ,1 February.
There was to be universal toleration. The Galileans could do as
they pleased among their own kind though they were not to perse-
cute each other, much less Hellenists. I suggested that they be less
greedy in the acquiring of property. I admitted that I was causing
them hardship when I asked for the return of temple lands, but I
pointed out that they had done us considerable hardship when they
had stolen them. I suggested that if they were less contemptuous
of our ancient myths - Kronos swallowing his children - we might
be less rude about their triple god and his virgin-birth.
"After all, as educated men, we should realize that myths always
stand for other things. They are toys for children teething. The
man knows that the toy horse is not a true horse but merely sug-
gests the idea of a horse to a baby's mind. When we pray before
the statue of Zeus, though the statue contains him as everything
must, the statue is not the god himself but only a suggestion of
him. Surely, as fellow priests, we can be frank with one another
about these grown-up matters.
"Now I must ask you to keep the peace in the cities. If you
do not, as chief magistrate I shall discipline you. But you have
nothing to fear from me as Pontifex Maximus, if you behave with
propriety and obey the civil laws and conduct your disputes with-
out resorting, as you have in the past, to fire and the knife. Preach
only the Nazarene's words and we shall be able to live with one
another. But of course you are not content with those few words.
You add new things daily. You nibble at Hellenism, you appro~
priate our holy days, our ceremonies, all in the name of a Jew
who knew them not. You rob us, and reject us, while quoting the
arrogant Cyprian who said that outside your faith there can be
no salvation! Is one to believe that a thousand generations of
men, among them Plato and Homer, are lost because they did not
worship a Jew who was supposed to be god? a man not born
when the world began ? You invite us to believe that the One God
is not only 'jealous', as the Jews say, but evil ? I am afraid it takes
extraordinary self-delusion to believe such things. But I am not
here to criticize you, only to ask you to keep the peace and never
to forget that the greatness of our world was the gift of other gods
and a different, more subtle philosophy, reflecting the variety in
nature."

[3~2]



An ancient bishop got to his feet. He wore the simple robes of
a holy man rather than those of a prince. "There is but One God.
Only one from the beginning of time."
"I agree. And he may take as many forms as he chooses for he
is all-powerful."
"Only one form has the One God." The old voice though thin
was firm.
"Was this One God revealed in the holy book of the Jews ?"
"He was, Augustus. And he remains."
"Did not Moses say in the book called Deuteronomy that 'You
shall not add to the word I have given you, nor take away from it' ?
And did he not curse anyone who does not abide by the Law God
gave him ?"
There was a pause. The bishops were subtle men and they were
perfectly aware that I had set some sort of trap for them, but they
were forced to proceed according to their holy book, for nothing
in this part of it is remotely ambiguous.
"All that you say Moses said is not only true but eternal."
"Then," I let the trap snap shut, "why do you alter the Law to
suit yourselves ? In a thousand ways you have perverted not only
Moses but the Nazarene and you have done it ever since the day
the blasphemous Paul of Tarsus said 'Christ is the end of the Law' !
You are neither Hebrew nor Galilean but opportunists."
The storm broke. The bishops were on their feet shouting sacred
texts, insults, threats. For a moment I thought they were going to
attack me on the throne, but even in their fury they kept within
bounds.
I rose and crossed to the door at the back, ignored by the bishops
who ,vere now abusing one another as well as me. As I was about
to leave the room, the ancient bishop who had challenged me sud-
denly barred my way. He was Maris of Chalcedon. I have never
seen such malevolence in a human face.
"You are cursed!" He nearly spat in my face. The Scholarian
tribune drew his sword but I motioned for him to stand back.
"By you perhaps, but not by God." I was mild, even Galilean.
"Apostate !" He hurled the word at me.
I smiled. "Not I. You. I worship as men have worshipped since
time began. It is you who have abandoned not only philosophy
but God himself."
"You will burn in hell !"
"Beware, old man, you are the one in danger. All of you. Don't



think that the several generations which have passed since the
Nazarene died count for more than an instant in eternity. The past
does not cease because you ignore it. What you worship is evil.
You have chosen division, cruelty, superstition. Well, I mean to
stop the illness, to cut out the cancer, to strengthen the state . . .
Now step aside, my good fellow, and let me pass."
He stepped not aside but directly in my path. The tribune of
the Scholarians said suddenly, "He is blind, Augustus."
The old man nodded. "And glad that I cannot see you, Apostate."
"You must ask the Nazarene to restore your sight. If he loves
you, it is a simple matter." With this, I stepped around him. As I
did, he made a hissing noise, the sort old women make when they
fear the presence of an evil demon. He also made the sign of
the cross on his forehead. I responded to this gracious gesture by
making the sign which wards off the evil eye, but it was lost on
him.

Spring came early to the city. It was an exciting time, full of
new things accomplished. I attended the senate regularly. I was
the first emperor since Augustus to act simply as a member of that
body rather than as its lord and dictator. Priscus thinks they detest
me for my taking part in their debates; perhaps he's fight, but
even if they do, it is always good to restore meaning to ancient
institutions.
I made many reforms. I removed all Galileans from the Scho-
larian Guard. I refused to allow any Galilean to be governor of
a province. There was some outcry at this. But I am right. A
governor who sympathizes with the~ Galileans can hardly be
expected to carry out my edicts, particularly those which have to
do with lhe rebuilding of temples. Several senators took me to task
in debate: why if I was so tolerant of all religions did I persecute
Galilean officials? For obvious reasons my answer was more
sophistic than honest.
"Do the conscript fathers agree that a governor must uphold the
laws of the state ?" There was agreement. "Are not there certain
crimes-such as treason-which carry with them the death
penalty ?" Again agreement. "Would you also agree that no man
could be an effective governor who did not have the fight to
sentence the guilty to death?" A few had now got the drift to my
argument. "Well, then how can a Galilean be a governor when he




is expressly enjoined by the Nazarene never to take another man's
life, as you may read in that book which is said to be by Matthew,
Chapter XXVI, verse 52, and again in the work of the writer
John?" Always use their own weapons against them; they use
ours against us.
I removed the cross from all military and civil insignia, as well
as from the coins I minted, substituting instead images of the gods.
I addressed everyone as "my good fellow", imitating Socrates.
Finally, I took direct charge of the army. The emperor of course
is commander-in-chief, but ff he is not an experienced soldier he
can never be more than a sort of totem or sacred image, the actual
business of war being left to the field commanders. But with my
own Gallic troops as core, I was able to dominate the army, aided
by the officers I had brought with me from Gaul, particularly
Nevitta, Dagalaif, and Jovinus; from the old army of the East, I
retained Victor, Arintheus and my cousin Procopius.
Curiously enough, I heard nothing directly from Sapor when I
became Emperor. This was a serious breach of etiquette, for the
Roman and Persian rulers always exchange ritual greetings upon
the accession of one or the other. Yet there was only silence from
Ctesiphon. But I did learn something about Sapor when a most
opulent and curious embassy arrived in the city at the beginning of
May. The ambassadors were a brown-skinned, delicate little people
from Ceylon, an island off the coast of India. They brought rich
gifts. They wished to establish trade with us, and we were most
receptive. Their ambassador told me that Sapor had followed
closely my campaigns in Gaul and feared me. How strange to think
that an Oriental king at the edge of the world should know all
about my conquests three thousand miles away! But then I know
quite a lot about him. Sapor and I have more in common with one
another than we do with our own intimates, for we share the same
sort of responsibility and the same awesome power. If I take him
captive, we should have much to talk about.
I planned a winter campaign, recalling the old saying that in
cold weather "a Persian won't draw his hand from his cloak". Un-
fortunately, as it turned out, I was several months off schedule. But
meanwhile, Nevitta trained the troops and their spirits were high;
even the Celts did not mind the East as much as they thought they
would.
During this time, I got to know the Persian Prince Ormisda. He
is a half-brother of Sapor, and the Persian throne is rightfully his.



But when he was a boy Sapor exiled him. After a brief stay at the
court of Armenia, Ormisda attached himself to us. For forty years
(he is sixty) he has dreamed of only one thing, a Roman conquest
of Persia that would place him on the throne. Constantine, Con-
stantius and myself have all used him as a soldier and as a source
of information. But of the three I am the first to try and make
his dream a reality. Meanwhile, he is invaluable to me. He has
many secret partisans at the court of Ctesiphon; he is a fine soldier
who fought with Constantine in Europe; and of course he always
used to accompany Constantius whenever that bold warrior would
assemble the Eastern army for a march to the Euphrates. Once at
the river's edge, the Emperor would make camp and wait until
Sapor and the Persian army appeared. As soon as the enemy was in
view, Constantius would then withdraw with superb dignity to
Antioch or Tarsus and .go into winter quarters. These military
pageants got to be a most depressing joke. Ormisda was in despair,
until I became emperor. Now he is content. As I write these lines,
he is almost Great King of Persia.
In my leisure time- there was no leisure! - I sat up late with
friends and we talked of a thousand things. I was particularly close
to Maximus; in fact, it was like old times in Ephesus. As always, he
was the link between the gods and me. I recall one evening as being
particularly significant; even revelatory.
A number of us were gathered on the garden terrace of the
Daphne Palace. It was a warm night, and there was a splendid view
of the sea of Marmora, glittering in the full moon's light. Flower-
ing trees and shrubs filled the air with fragrance. Far off the lights
of the city flickered at the sea's edge. The night was still, except
for us and the cry of an occasional guard as he challenged strangers.
Ormisda seemed eager to speak to me; I motioned for him to
come with me to the far end of the terrace. Here we sat on a ledge
among roses in their first bloom.
"Sapor does not want a war, Augustus." Ormisda still speaks
with a heavy Persian accent despite a lifetime among us.
"So the Singhalese embassy tells me." I was non-committal; I
beat a war-tattoo with my heels on the ledge.
"Do you know what the Persians call you ?"
"I can imagine." I sighed. It is amazing how one's intimates
enjoy repeating the terrible things said of us. In ancient times
those who brought bad news were promptly put to death: one
of the pleasures of classical tyranny !




"The thunderbolt."
"Because I am the agent of Zeus ?"
"Because of the speed with which you crossed Europe and sur-
prised the army at Sirmium."
I was pleased. "It's as good as a battle won to be feared by your
enemy."
"They fear 'the thunderbolt'."
"But then Constantius's army fears Sapor. So the fears are now
balanced."
Ormisda came to the point. "They will do everything possible
to placate you. I am told by..." He gestured delicately with his
rose. He knew that I knew he maintained close connections with
the dissident party in Persia. "... that Sapor is willing to with-
draw from the border, to leave Mesopotamia. Almost anything you
ask, he will do."
I looked at him gravely. He looked air r~e. A long moment. Then
I smiled. "I promise you to listen to no embassy.""But I did not suggest that, Augustus."
"No embassy. No treaty. Only war to the end. That is a holy
VOW."
"I believe you, Lord. I thank you." He spoke softly, in his
curiously accented Greek.
"And it' the gods are with us, I shall crown you myself at
Ctesiphon, with Sapor as . . ."
"Footstool!" Ormisda laughed, referring to a particularly grue-
some custom of the Persian kings, who skin captured rulers and
stuff them for cushions. Then Praetextatus joined us on the ledge.
As much as I esteem him, I find his company sometimes burden-
some. He has no lightness in him, only a constant noble gravity.
Yet in religious matters, I could not manage without him.
"Are we making progress ?" That was my usual greeting to him.
"I hope so, Augustus. I believe so. Only last week my wife
initiated a hundred local ladies into Hecate's mysteries."
"Wonderful!" And it was, for women are the operatives of
religion and though they seldom possess the true religious sense,
they are excellent at getting things done and making converts. The
early Galileans devoted much time to flattering slave-women in
order to win over their mistresses. Even at Rome today, it is not
uncommon for senators to uphold fiercely the old gods in the
senate only to come home to a house filled with Galilean women,
singing Galilean songs.



"When I leave for the south, Praetextatus, I shall want you to
fill an important post for me."
"What is that, Augustus ?" Noble as he was, I detected that
sudden alertness in the face which I have come to recognize as
the premonitory look of one who hopes to be raised up.
"If it suits you, I mean to make you proconsul of Greece." It
suited him beautifully, and at great length he thanked me. I then
gave him instructions to be as useful as he could to such old friends
as Prohaeresius and his niece Macrina.
After this, I left the ledge of roses and walked down a flight of
shallow steps, breathing the night a'rr with some delight, aware how
little opportunity I now have, simply, to be. For one whose essential
interest is philosophy I have managed to be almost everything else:
soldier, administrator, lawyer . . . whatever is not contemplative
I am it !
Maximus was standing at the foot of the steps in the shadow of
a tall cypress. He was looking at the moon. In his hand he held a
small staff which, from time to time, he held up to the sky, shifting
it this way and that, the shadow crossing his face, drained now of
colour in the pale light.
"What are the omens ?" I stayed outside the circle of the tree,
not wanting to disturb what could have been a spell. Maximus did
not answer for some minutes as he continued to study the staff and
the moon from various angles.
"Good," he said at last, stepping outside the circle of the tree's
shadow. "At almost any time this year the omens are good. No
matter what you attempt, you will succeed."
"We have come a long way," I said idly, looking down at the
city, and the sea beyond. It is awesome to think that everything is
one's own, at least for the brief space of a life- which is why I
have always the sense I must hurry to get things done, that there is
hardly any time at all for a man to impress his quality and passion
upon a world which will continue after him, as unconcerned as it
was when it preceded him. Each day that I live I say to myself: the
visible world is mine, use it, change it, but be quick, for the
night comes all too fast and nothing is ever entirely finished,
nothing.
"You have made Praetextatus proconsul of Greece."
Once again Maximus knew what-until a few moments before
- only I had known. Does he read my mind, the way the Chaldeans
do ? or does he get instruction from his private genius ? No matter

[3x8]



what his method, he can always anticipate not only my mood but
my administrative appointments !

Priscus: Julian was often wflfully gullible. Maximus had been
standing just below the ledge when the announcement was made.
He did not need to consult "his private genius", just his ears. As
a matter of fact Maximus's ears did resemble those of a fox: long,
pointed and slightly bent forward. He was a notorious eaves-
dropper, proving that nature is always considerate in putting to-
gether a man. Though as philosophers, we might argue that a man
born with the ears of a fox might then be impelled to become an
eavesdropper.

Julian Augustus
"I saw something interesting tonight." Maximus took me by the
arm and led me along the terrace to a bench which faces the sea.
Several small ships were making for the new harbour I am build-
ing just to the north. We could hear the long cry of sailors across
the waters, and the response from the harbour. "Safe landing," I
prayed to Poseidon out of habit. We sat down.
"All the signs for several weeks have pointed to a marvellous
victory for you- for us." He indicated my star, which shone at
that moment in the west.
I nodded. "I have had good signs, too."
"Yesterday- while praying to Cybele- the goddess spoke to
me."
I was impressed. Maximus speaks often to gods of the lower rank
{and of course to demons of every sort) but very seldom does he
hear the voice of Cybele, the Great Mother; Earth herself.
Maximus was excited, though he tried to disguise it. He had every
reason to be exultant, for to speak with Cybele is an extraordinary
feat. No, not feat, for one cannot storm heaven; rather, a beautifuI
sign that the prime movers of the universe now thought him ready
and worthy to receive their messages.
"I was praying in her shrine. Down there." He pointed to the
makeshift temple I had built near the Daphne Palace. "The chapel
was dark, as prescribed. The incense heavy. Her image dim by the
light of a single lamp. I prayed as I always pray to her . . ."
'q'he full verses ? to the seventh power ?"
He nodded. "Everything, as prescribed. But then, instead of the
usual silence and comfort, I felt terror, as if I had strayed to the



edge of a precipice. A coldness such as I had never felt before came
over me. I thought I might faint, die. Had I offended her ? Was I
doomed ? But then she spoke. The light from the lamp suddenly
flared and revealed her image, but it was no longer bronze, it was
she!"
I murmured a prayer to myself, chilled by his account.
"'Maximus,' she called my name and her voice was like a silver
bell. I hailed her by her titles. Then she spoke. 'He whom you love
is well loved by me.'"
I could hardly move or breathe while Maximus spoke. It was as
if I myself were now listening to the voice of this goddess.
"'He whom the gods love as their true son will be Lord of all
the earth.'"
"Persia . . . ?" I whispered. "Did she mean Persia ?"
But Maximus continued in the voice of the goddess.
"'... of all the earth. For we shall send him a second spirit to
aid him in the long marches.'""Hermes ?"
"'One who is now with us shall be with him until he reaches the
end of the earth and finishes the work which that spirit began, for
our glory.'" Maximus stopped, as though he had come to the end
of a page.
There was a long silence. I waited, then Maximus turned to
me, eyes flashing, beard like water flowing in the moonlight.
"Alexander !" He breathed the name. "You are to finish his work."
"In Persia ?"
"And India and all that lies to the farthest east!" Maximus took
the edge of my cloak in his hand and held it to his lips, the gesture
of a suppliant doing homage. "You are Alexander.""If this is true . . ."
"If! You have heard her words."
"Then we shall break Sapor."
"And after that nothing shall stand in your way from Persia to
the eastern ocean. She asks only that you restore her temple at
Pessinus."
"Gladly !"
Maximus made a secret and holy gesture to my star. I did the
same. Then we were interrupted by Priscus, who said in his loud
clear voice, "Star-gazing again ?"

Priscus: If I had known what they were up to, I should have had

[52o3




a good deal more to say in my "loud clear voice". From certain
things Julian let slip during the Persian campaign I did get the
impression that he believed he was in some spectacular way sup-
ported by the gods, but I had no idea that he actually thought he
was Alexander, or at least had the ghost of Alexander tucked inside
of him, located somewhere between the heart and the liver. This
particular madness explains a good deal about the last stages of
that campaign when Julian-Alexander began to act very peculiarly
indeed. Personally, if I were a general, I would not like to be
inhabited by another general, especially one who went insane!
But Maximus was capable of anything; and Julian never doubted
him.
This is all there is to the Constantinople section of the memoir.
Julian intended to give a full account of all his edicts and appoint-
ments, but he never got round to it. You can doubtless obtain this
material from the Record Office.
In May, Julian left Constantinople, to tour Galatia and Cappa-
docia, en route to his winter quarters at Antioch. Though he said
nothing publicly, everyone knew that the Eastern army would
assemble at Antioch, in readiness for the invasion of Persia.
I stayed on in Constantinople because I was hard pressed for
money at this time. Unlike Maximus and his wife, who were
making a fortune out of their imperial protdgd, I asked for nothing
and I got nothing. Julian never thought of money unless you did.
Then he was generous. Fortunately, I was able to give a series of
lectures at the University. Old Nicocles was most helpful in getting
me pupils. You knew him, didn't you ? But of course. He forced
you to leave the city back in the ,[o's. A sad business. But Nicocles
was a good friend to me and I was soon able to send Hippia quite a
large amount of money. Also, Julian allowed me to live at the
Sacred Palace while I taught, so my personal expenses were slight.
One interesting detail: just before Julian left for Antioch,
Oribasius returned from Greece. He was significantly silent and
there was no longer any talk of restoring Apollo's temple. It was
not until many years later that Oribasius told me what had hal>
pened at Delphi, the so-called "navel of the earth".
Oribasius found modern Delphi very sad indeed. The works of
art which had once decorated the numerous shrines are all gone.
Constantine alone stole 2,700 statues. There is no sight quite so for-
lorn as acres of empty pedestals. The town was deserted except for
a few tattered Cynics, who offered to show Oribasius about. I've

[32~]



never visited Delphi myself, but one has always heard that the
people who lived there were the most rapacious on earth, even
worse than the tradesmen at Eleusis. I cannot say that I feel par.
ticularly sorry for them now. They had a thousand years of robbing
visitors. It was unreasonable to think that this arrangement would
last for ever.
I suspect Oribasius disliked all religion, much the way I do. But
where I prefer the mind of man to any sort of magic, Oribasius
preferred the body. What he could not see and touch did not
interest him. He was an unusual friend for a prince. His only
passion was medicine, which I have always regarded as a branch
of magic, though his approach to it was blessedly matter-of-fact.
Have you noticed that whenever a physician prescribes such-and-
such a treatment, and one follows it and is cured, he is always
slightly surprised ? Everything a doctor does is guess-work. That
is why he must be as good at acting as any Sophist; his cures depend
entirely upon a convincing show of authority.
At the temple of Apollo, Oribasius called out, "Where is the
priest ? No answer. He went inside. Part of the roof had fallen
in: dust was everywhere. Just behind the pedestal where the god's
statue had been, he found a sleeping priest with a half-empty skin
of wine beside him. It took Oribasius some minutes to wake the
man. When told that Oribasius was the Emperor's envoy, he be-
came quite nervous. "It's been a bad season for the temple, very
bad. Our revenues are gone. We don't even get the few visitors
we had last year. But you must tell the Augustus that we still go
about our holy tasks, even though there's no money to fix the roof,
or to pay for sacrifices." He got to his feet, swaying from drink.
Oribasius asked about the oracle.
"Oh, we're still functioning. We have an excellent Pythoness.
She's rather old but she gets good results. Apollo talks to her all
the time, she says. We're quite pleased with her work. I'm sure
you'll find her satisfactory. Naturally, you'll want to talk to her.
I'll go ask when she can receive you. She has bad days, you
know . . ." He gestured vaguely. Then he disappeared down a
steep flight of steps.
Oribasius examined the temple. All the famous statues were
gone, including the one of Homer which used to be by the door.
Incidentally, Julian found this particular statue in a storeroom
of the Sacred Palace, and had it set up in his library. I've seen it
myself: a fine work, the face full of sadness, Homeric in fact.

[322]





The priest returned to say that the Pythoness would consult the
oracle the following day. Meanwhile, the usual propitiatory cere-
monies must be enacted, particularly the sacrifice. The priest
salivated at the word.
Next day, Oribasius and the priest sacrificed a goat on the altar
outside the temple. As soon as the animal was dead, the priest
sprinkled it with holy water and the legs trembled, supposedly a
good sign. After this, they entered the temple and descended the
steep steps to the crypt. Against his will, Oribasius found the whole
nonsense most impressive.
They sat in a sort of waiting-room cut in rock. Opposite them
was a door which led into the cell of the god. Here, from a fissure
in the earth, steam rises; here, too, is the navel of the world - the
omphalos - a round stone said to have been flung to earth by Zeus.
The priestess entered from the temple. She looked at neither
priest nor visitor. According to Oribasius, she was immensely old
and shrunken and toothless.
"She is now pure," whispered the priest. "She has just bathed
in the Kastalian spring." The Pythoness threw a number of laurel
leaves and barley meal on a brazier; the room filled with an acrid
smoke. "Now she is making the air pure," said the priest. Then
Oribasius, eyes streaming with tears from the smoke, followed the
Pythoness into the inner cell where, for a thousand years, Apollo
has spoken to man. Just beside the omphalos was a tripod, on
which the Pythoness sat, cross-legged, her face bent over the steam
as it escaped from the earth below her. She muttered incantations.
"All right," whispered the priest. "She is ready to hear you."
In a loud voice Oribasius said: "I come from Flavius Claudius
Julianus, Augustus and Pontilex Maximus. He does homage to the
god Apollo, and to all the true gods."
The Pythoness sang softly to herself during this, her attention
fixed on the steam at the foot of the tripod.
"The Augustus wishes guidance from the god Apollo. He will do
whatever he is commanded."
"The question ?" The old voice was thin and indistinct.
"Shall the Emperor restore the holy temple of Delphi ?"
For a long moment the only sound in the shrine was the faint
hissing noise steam makes escaping rock. That sound is possibly the
origin of the legend that the earth goddess Ge had a son who was
a serpent called Python. The serpent controlled the oracle until
Apollo killed him and threw the body down a crevice. The steam



is supposed to come from the corpse. The hissing sound is the
serpent's dying voice.
At last the Pythoness stirred. She took several deep breaths of
steam. She gasped; she coughed; she rolled her eyes; she clung
with claw-like hands to the top of the tripod, rocking back and
forth. Then she was motionless. When she finally spoke, her voice
was firm and distinct despite the absence of teeth.
"Tell the King: on earth has fallen the glorious dwelling, and
the water-springs that spoke are still. Nothing is left the god, no
roof, no shelter, and in his hand the prophet laurel flowers no
more."
That was all. The Pythoness shut her eyes. She seemed to sleep.
Oribasius and the priest departed. The priest was distraught. "I
don't believe it," he said. "Of course Apollo wants his temple re-
built. I can't think what got into her. Of course these messages
are always open to interpretation. Sometimes they are deliberately
perverse, and obscure . . ." But it was no good.
I asked Oribasius what Julian said when he was told the oracle.
"Nothing," said Oribasius. "Except to ask me to mention it to no
one."
Personally, I am certain that the priestess was in the pay of
the Christians. They knew what importance Julian set by oracles,
especially this one. Why do I think they had a hand in the
prophecy ? Because if the priestess was genuine she would have
done everything possible to see that Delphi was restored. She would
not have admitted in so many words that the game was up. And to
speak aljainst the interests of her own establishment meant that
she had been made a better offer. Of course I do not believe- as
Julian did - that Apollo speaks to us through a succession of ladies
who have fits from breathing steam. The whole thing was always a
fake. But this time I am positive it was a double fake. Oribasius
rather agreed with me when I told him my theory.
As I said, Julian left Constantinople in high spirits and I did not
see him again for some months. When I did, I noticed a great
change in his mood. The euphoria of Con,stantinople was gone. He
was uneasy and touchy and of course he hated Antioch, which he
describes.

[324]



XVIII
Julian Au9ustus
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 offer-
ing 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 Constanti-
nople, 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 administra-
tive staff of the Sacred Palace. I was particularly bored- yet im-
pressed- 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 invari-
ably: 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 remark-
able in his grasp of detail and, like it or not, I learned a good deal
from him.

[325]

s ot'

he



;
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 cam-
paigns 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 steIe 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 3o3,
Diocletian launched his edict against the Galileans, ordering
their charnel houses razed and their communities dissolved. Un-
fortunately, 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,

[3263





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

[327]



who are Galilean. I then assigned to the diocese of Galatia an annual
allowance of 3o,ooo sacks of corn and 6o,ooo pints of wine, one-
fifth 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, discuss-
ing 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 thou-
sand 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 re-
opening 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 towns-
people 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 inter-
ference with my plans. I don't know what I should have done with-
out 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 court-
house, listening to men lie about one another. The creative lengths
to which human malice will go quite inspire awe. One man, deter-
mined 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 l~se majest~. 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 out-
burst, 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 acquaint-
ances 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 con-
cerned. 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.

[329]



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? $o
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 reper-
cussions, 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 pre-
decessors, the great Stoics of six centuries ago. I even went swim-
ming 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 igno/'ed 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 refer-
ence 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

[3303



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 su~rounded 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 reason-
able 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.     ~

[332]




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 deal-
ings 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 in-

[333~



ndid
:ives
;t he
~r u~
:ilcd
ooi1

st

'e
~s

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I

but Prohaeresius told me later that he himself promptly stopped
teaching. Later, when his personal exemption arrived, he still re-
fused 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 pre-
tended 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 con-
verted 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 irritaNe and began to
retaliate. The Edict on Education was, he thought, a terminal Now.



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 con-
stantly 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.

]ulian 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 testa-
ments 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

[~36]



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 appear-
ances. 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 magis-
trates, 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 them-
selves Galileans in the most passionate way, demanding I persecute
those not of their persuasion.
In Antioch the Galileans are divided between blind followers of

[3:~7']



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 be-
cause 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

[3S8]





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 re-
search 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. Accom-
panied by Maximus and Oribasius (who grumbled at the early
hour), I crossed the bridge to the Syrian quarter. I was accom-

[339]



panied 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. LuśJ~JJ,v,
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, joi.~,
ing 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 them-
selves 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.

[340]



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 move-
ments m~vJ.~.oole~. Y~t ex~v. 4.,:',,...%%~4. o_,':,~ c~.~. teJ). ~ %~.r~1~ ."1,~1,. ~l~&
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 sup-
pose, 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 mis-
placed 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

[34~]

alld



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 him-
self 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 com-
petition 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 un-
usual 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 conversa-
tion, 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
5eleucus, 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 my-
self. 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

[343]

~ree~



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 sight-
seeing 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 con-
tains 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 busi-
ness 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 conveni-
ence for lovers, or for those with a full bladder. Lacking any other
attendant, he was the god's priest.

[344]



"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 my-
self. 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 noble4ooking 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 per-
sonal 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 com-
pliment 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 thou-
sand 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

[:~461



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, re-
moved."
"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."
GIumly, 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 com-
panions 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

[347]



for ever destroyed; after his death the temple was burned by Tit~
If I rebuild it, the Nazarene will be proved a false prophet. Wi!
some pleasure, I have given orders that the temple be restore~
Also, what better allies can one have against the Gallleans tha
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 t
gave orders for the Jewish temple to be rebuilt, there was co~
sternation among the Christians. They hate the Jews, partly b
cause they feel guilty for having stolen their god from them, b~
mostly because they realize that the Jews know better than an'
one what perfect nonsense the whole Christian mishmash is. No'
if the Jewish temple were rebuilt, not only would Jesus be prove
a false prophet but the Christians wbuld again have a formidab
rival at Jerusalem. Something had to be done. And it was.
I got the true story from my old friend Alypius, who was ~
charge of the project. He had been vice-prefect in Britain wh›
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. O~
night we visited every brothel in Singon Street. But I shall spa:
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. ~
had carte blanche. With the help of the governor, they start~
work, to the delight of the local Jews, who agreed to raise ~
necessary money. Then the famous "miracle" happened. OJ
morning balls of flame flared among the stones and a sudden tier,
north wind caused them to roll about, terrifying the workm~
who fled. That was the end of that. Alypius later discovered th
the Galileans had placed buckets of naphtha in the ruins,.
arranged that if one was lit all the others would catch tire, te
giving the impression of tire-demons scurrying about.
The north wind was not planned; it is of course possible th
Jesus sent the wind to ensure his reputation as a prophet, bu!
think coincidence is more likely. Plans were made to start rebui]
ing in the spring, but by then it was too late.

[348]



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 over-
night."
"... 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 over-
riding 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

[349]



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 re-
mains 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 enough-
but 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

[3so]



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 dis-
pleased 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 ff 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 con-
fident 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 re-
sponsible 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.

~ whi~'l
)ire

'est

[35~]



Priscus: I arrived not long after the fire. My season of teaching
ended with the old year, and I travelled from Constantinople to
Antioch in eight days, which is excellent time. Julian so com-
pletely reformed the state transportation system that travel was a
pleasure. Not a bishop in sight, though there were several newly
appointed high priests in the carriages and I confess I began to
wonder if they were any improvement over the Christians. I
suspect that had Julian lived, matters would have been just as they
were under Constantius, only instead of being bored by quarrels
about the nature of the trinity we would have had to listen to dis-
putes about the nature of Zeus's sex life . . . rather an improve-
ment, come to think of it, but essentially the same thing.
I found Julian much changed. You of course were seeing a great
deal of him then, but since you had not known him before, you
could not have realized how nervous and ill-humoured he had be-
come. The burning of the temple was not only a sacrilege in his
eyes, it was a direct affront to his sovereignty. He always did have
trouble keeping in balance his two roles of philosopher and king.
The one might forgive and mitigate, but the other must be served,
if necessary with blood.
My first day in Antioch, Julian insisted I go with him to the
theatre. "At least we can talk if the play is too foolish." Now it
happens that I very much like comedy, particularly low farces.
No joke is so old that it cannot delight me, if only by its dear
familiarity. The comedy that night was The Frogs by Aristophanes.
Julian hated it, even the rather good jokes about literary style
which ought to have amused him. Julian was not without humour.
He had a lively response to bores; some gift of mimicry; and he
enjoyed laughing. But he was also conscious every moment of his
sacred mission, and this tended to put him on guard against any
form of wit which might turn against himself; heroes cannot
survive mockery and Julian was a true hero, perhaps the last our
race shall put forth.
I was delighted to be in Antioch that day. I enjoy the languorous
weather, the perfumed crowds, the wide streets... As you can
gather, I like the luxurious and "depraved" ways of your city. If I



had the money, I would be living there right now. How I envy you !
I was in a fine mood when we arrived at the theatre. We all
were. Even Julian was like his old self, talking rapidly, waving
with good humour to the crowds that cheered him. But then from
the cheaper seats came the ominous cry, "Augustus! Augustus!"
And a chant began, "Everything plentiful, everything dear!" This
kept on for half an hour, the voices growing louder until it seemed
as if everyone in the theatre was bellowing those words. At last
Julian motioned to the commander of the household troops, and a
hundred guards appeared so swiftly that they gave the impression
of being part of the programme as they gathered about the Emperor
with drawn swords. The chanting promptly ceased, and the play,
rather dismally, began. The next day the food riots started, but
then you, as quaestor, know far more about all this than I.

Libanius: One curious aspect of human society is that preventive
measures are seldom taken to avert disaster, even when the exact
nature of the approaching calamity is perfectly plain. In March
when the rains did not fall, everyone knew that there would be a
small harvest; by May, it was obvious that there would be a food
shortage; by June, famine. But though we often discussed this in
the senate - and the people in the markets talked of little else but
the uncommon dryness of the season - no plans were made to buy
grain from other countries. All of us knew what was going to
happen, and no one did anything. There is a grim constant in this
matter which might be worth a philosopher's while to investigate.
It was Julian's bad luck to come to Antioch just when the
shortages began. But though he could in no way be blamed for
either the dry weather or the city fathers' lack of foresight, the
Antiochenes (whose emblem ought to be the scapegoat) immedi-
ately attributed the famine to him.
They claimed that the quartering and provisioning of his con-
siderable army had driven up prices and made food scarce. This
was true in a few commodities but not in grain, the essential food:
corn for the army was imported directly from Egypt. Yet the
people of the city were eager to abuse Julian. Why? Bishop
Meletius had declared that Julian's fate was decided when he re-
moved the bones of St Babylas from Daphne. That strikes me as
a rather special point of view. Meletius also maintains that the
people of the city turned against him the day he shut down the
cathedral. I doubt this. Some were shocked of course, but the



Antiochenes are not devout Christians; they are not devout any-
thing, except voluptuaries. Not wanting to blame themselves for
the famine, they blamed Julian, who had made himself ridiculous
in their eyes by his continual sacrifices and grandiose revivals of
archaic ceremonies.
I confess that even at the time I felt Julian was overdoing it. On
one day at Daphne, he sacrificed a thousand white birds, at heaven
knows what expense! Then a hundred bulls were sacrificed to
Zeus. Later, four hundred cows to Cybele. That was a particularly
scandalous occasion. In recent years the rites of Cybele have been
private affairs, involving as they do many ceremonies which are
outrageous to ordinary morality. Julian decided to make the cere-
monial public. Everyone was shocked at the ritual scourging of a
hundred youths by the priestesses. To make matters worse, the
youths had agreed to take part in the ceremony not out of faith
but simply to curry fayour with the Emperor, while the priestesses
were almost all of them recent initiates. The result was unhappy.
Several young men were seriously hurt and a number of priestesses
fainted at the sight of so much blood. The ultimate rites were a
confused obscenity.
But Julian grimly persisted, on the ground that no matter how
alarming some of these rites may appear to us, each is a part of
our race's constant attempt to placate the gods. Every ancient cere-
mony has its own inner logic, and efficacy. The only fault I find
with Julian is that he was in too great a hurry. He wanted every-
thing restored at once. We were to return to the age of Augustus
in a matter of months. Given years, I am sure he could have re-
established the old religions. The people hunger for them. The
Christians do not offer enough, though I must say they are out-
rageously bold in the way they adapt our most sacred rituals and
festivals to their own ends. A clear sign that their religion is a false
one, improvised by man in time, rather than born naturally of
eternity.
From the beginning, the Christians tried to allay man's fear of
death. Yet they have still not found a way to release that element
in each of us which demands communion with the One. Our
mysteries accomplish this, which is why they are the envy of the
Christians and the enduring object of their spite. Now I am per-
fectly willing to grant that the Christian way is one way to know-
ing. But it is not the only way, as they declare. If it were, why
would they be so eager to borrow from us ? What most disturbs

[3s4]



me is their curious hopelessness about this life, and the undue
emphasis they put on the next. Of course eternity is larger than
the brief span of a man's life, but to live entirely within the idea
of eternity is limiting to the spirit and makes man wretched in his
day-to-day existence, since his eye must always be fixed not on
this lovely world but on that dark door through which he must
one day pass. The Christians are almost as death-minded as the
original Egyptians, and I have yet to meet one, even my old pupil
and beloved friend Basil, who has ever got from his faith that sense
of joy and release, of oneness with creation and delight in what
has been created, that a man receives when he has gone through
those days and nights at Eleusis. It is the meagreness of Christian
feeling that disconcerts me, their rejection of this world in fayour
of a next which is- to be tactful- not entirely certain. Finally,
one must oppose them because of their intellectual arrogance,
which seems to me often like madness. We are told that there is
only one way, one revelation: theirs. Nowhere in their tirades and
warnings can one find the modesty or wisdom of a Plato, or that
pristine world of flesh and spirit Homer sang of. From the begin-
ning, curses and complaints have been the Christian style, inherited
from the Jews, whose human and intellectual discipline is as admir-
able as their continuining bitterness is limiting and blighting.
I see nothing good ever coming of this religious system no matter
how much it absorbs our ancient customs and puts to use for its
own ends Hellenic wit and logic. Yet I have no doubt now that the
Christians will prevail. Julian was our last hope, and he went too
soon. Something large and harmful has now come into the life of
this old world. One recalls, stoically, the injunction of Sophocles:
"And ever shall this law hold good, nothing that is vast enters into
the life of mortals without a curse."
It is also significant that this death cult should take hold just as
the barbarians are gathering on our borders. It is fitting that if our
world is to fall - and I am certain that it will - the heirs of those
who had originally created this beautiful civilization and made
great art should at the end be art-less and worship a dead man and
disdain this life for an unknown eternity behind the dark door.
But I have given way to my worst fault ! Prolixity! I have delivered
myself of a small oration when I should have kept to the task at
hand, Julian in Antioch.
Not only did the people regard Julian's continual round of sacri-
fice as wasteful and ridiculous; they were alarmed by the Gallic

[355]

e

lic



troops who used to attend every sacrifice, pretending to do honour
to the gods but really waiting for the banquet of smoking meat
which followed. The moment Julian left the temple, the soldiers
would devour the sacrificed animals and guzzle wine until they
became unconscious. Whenever a drunken legionnaire was carried
like a corpse through the streets, the people would say, "The
Emperor has been praying again." This did Hellenism little good
in the eyes of the Antiochenes, who are so adept at vice that they
never get drunk, and have the greatest contempt for those who do.
The trials of those supposedly responsible for the burning of the
temple of Apollo also turned the city against Julian. As quaestor,
I looked into the matter perhaps more closely than anyone. Now
Julian honestly thought that the Christians had set the fire, but for
once they were (probably) innocent. I talked many years later to
the so-called priest of Apollo and he told me what he had not told
the Board of Inquiry.
On 22 October, shortly after Julian left the temple precinct, the
philosopher Asclepiades arrived, hoping to see the Emperor. Find-
ing him gone, Asclepiades went inside and placed as an offering
a small silver statue of the goddess Caelestis at the feet of Apollo,
just inside the wood railing. He also lit a number of tapers and
arranged them about the statue. Then he left. That was at sun-
down. Just before midnight, sparks from the expiring candles set
fire to the railing. The season was dry; the night windy; the cedar
wood ancient. The temple burned. Now if this fool had only told
Julian the truth before the arrests, nothing would have happened,
but he was almost as afraid of the Hellenic Emperor as he was of
the Christians.
The whole episode was sad. Fortunately, no lives were lost. The
Christians suffered nothing more serious than the shutting down of
the cathedral. Later a number of bishops came to Julian to com-
plain that he was causing them great hardship, to which he replied
with some humour, "But it is your duty to bear these 'persecutions'
patiently. You must turn the other cheek, for that is the command
of your GOd."

Julian Augustus
Late in the autumn a large crowd appealed to me in a public
place by chanting that though everything was plentiful, prices
were far too high. This was a clear indictment of the wealthy
class of Antioch, who will do anything to make money, even at



the risk of starving their own people. Just seven years ago they
had taken advantage of the same sort of situation, and the people
had rebelled. Lives were lost, property destroyed. One would have
thought that the burghers might have learned something from such
recent history; but they had not.
The day after the demonstration, I sent for the leading men of
the city. Before the meeting, I was briefed at length by Count Felix.
We sat in the empty council chamber, a pile of papers on a table
between us. A bronze statue of Diocletian looked disdainfully
down at us. This was very much the sort of problem he used to
enioy wrestling with. I don't.
"These figures, Augustus, show a century of corn prices as they
fluctuate not only from year to year but month to month." The
count beamed with pleasure. He got from lists of numbers that
same rapture others obtain from Plato or Homer. "I have even-
as you will notice- made allowances for currency fluctuations.
They are listed here." He tapped one of the parchments, and looked
at me sharply to make sure that I was paying attention. 1 always
felt with Count Felix that I was again a child and he Mardonius.
But Felix was an excellent guide to the mysterious underworld of
money. He believed, as did Diocletian, in the fixing of prices. He
had all sorts of proof from past experiments that such a system
would increase the general prosperity. When I was with him, he
always convinced me that he was right. But then in matters of
money anyone can, momentarily at least, convince me of any-
thing. After a brilliant, yet to me largely unintelligible, discourse,
Felix advised me to set the price of corn at one silver piece for ten
measures, a fair price in Antioch. We would then rigorously hold
the price at this level, preventing the merchants from taking
advantage of the seasoh's scarcity.
In principle I agreed with Felix. "But," I asked, "shouldn't we
allow the senate to set the price themselves ? to restrain their own
people ?"
Count Felix gave me the sort of pitying look Mardonius used
to when I had made some particularly fatuous observation. "You
cannot ask a wolf not to eat an unprotected sheep. It is his nature.
Well, it is their nature to make as much profit as they can." I
thought not. As it turned out, Felix was right.
At the appointed hour some three hundred of the leading
burghers of Antioch were admitted to the council chamber. I kept
Felix close beside me, as well as Salutius. As Count of the East my



uncle Julian should have presided, but he was ill. The Antiochenes
were a handsome, ceremonious, rather effeminate crew who
smelled-though the day was hot-like three hundred gardens
of Daphne; in that close room, their scent made my head
ache.
I came straight to the point. I quoted that morning's price for
corn. "You ask the people to pay three times what the corn is
worth. Now food is scarce but not so scarce as that, unless what
I've been told is true, that certain speculators are keeping their
corn off the market until the people are hungry and desperate and
will pay anything." Much clearing of throats at this, uneasy
glances exchanged. "Naturally, I don't believe these stories. Why
would the leaders of any city wish to exploit their own people?
Foreigners, yes. Even the imperial court." Dead silence at this.
"But not your own kind. For you are men, not beasts who devour
their weaker fellows."
After thus soothing them, I carefully outlined Count Felix's
plan. While I spoke, his lips moved, repeating silently along with
me the exact arguments I had learned from him a few minutes
before. The burghers were distraught. Not until I had thoroughly
alarmed them, did I say, "But I know that I can trust you to do
what is right." There was a long exhalation of breath at this. They
were all relieved.
I was then answered by the city prefect. "You may depend on
us, Lord, in all things. We shall - and I know I speak for every man
here- hold the price of grain at its usual level, though it must be
taken into account that there is a shortage . . ."
"How many bushels.~" I broke in. The prefect conferred a
moment with several hard-faced men.
"Four hundred thousand bushels, Lord."
I turned to Salutius. "Send to Chalcis and Hierapolis. They have
the grain. Buy it from them at the usual cost." I looked up at
Diocletian; the heavy face was majestic yet contemptuous; how
he had despised the human race!
When the burghers of Antioch departed, Felix rounded on me.
"You have done exactly the wrong thing ! I know them better than
you. They will hold the grain back. They will create a famine.
Then they will sell, and every time you reason with them they'll
tell you: but this is the way it is always done. Prices always find
their proper level. Do nothing. Rely on the usual laws of the
market-place. Well, mark my words..." Felix's long forefinger



had been sawing the air in front of me when suddenly he froze,
an astonished look on his face."What's wrong?" I asked.
He looked at me vaguely. Then he touched his stomach. "The
fish sauce, Augustus," he said, turning quite paleú "I should never
touch it, especially in hot weather." He ran quickly to the door,
in much distress. I'm afraid that Salutius and I laughed.
"My apologies, Augustus," he said. "But one greater than you
calls !" On that light note Felix left us. An hour later he was found
seated on the toilet, dead. I shall never have such a good tax adviser
again.

Two weeks later I had a most unsettling vision. I had gone to
pray at the temple of Zeus on Mount Kasios, which is in Seleucia,
not far from Antioch. I arrived at the temple just before dawn.
All preparations had been made for a sacrifice, and there was none
of the confusion I had met with at Daphne. I was purified. I put
on the sacred mantle. I said what must be said. The white bull was
brought to the altar. As I lifted the knife, I fainted.
My uncle attributed this to the twenty-four-hour fast which
preceded the sacrifice. No matter what the cause, I was suddenly
aware that I was in danger of my life. I was being warned. No, I
did not see the face of Zeus or hear his voice, but as a black green
sea engulfed me, I received a warning: death by violence was at
hand. Oribasius brought me to, forcing my head between my knees
until consciousness returned.
That night, two drunken soldiers were heard to say that no one
need worry about a Persian campaign because my days were
numbered. They were arrested. Eight more were implicated. They
were all Galileans who had been incited to this action by various
trouble-makers, none of whom was ever named. I was to have
been killed at the next day's military review, and Salutius made
emperor.
Salutius was most embarrassed by this, but I assured him that I
did not believe he was responsible for this hare-brained plot. "You
could kill me so easily in far subtler ways," I said quite amiably,
for I respect him.
"I have no desire to kill you, Augustus, if only because I would
kill myself before I ever allowed anyone to make me emperor."
I laughed. "I felt that way once. But it is curious how rapidly

aim



one changes." Then I said to him with perfect seriousness, "Should
I die, you might well be my personal choice to succeed me."
"No!" He was fierce in his rejection. "I would not accept the
principate from Zeus himself."
I think I believe him. It is not that he is modest or feels himself
inadequate, quite the contrary. But he does feel (and this I gather
by what he does not say) that there is some sort of- I cannot find
any but a most terrible word to describe his attitude-"curse"
upon the principate. As a man, he would be spared it. Perhaps he
is right.
The ten soldiers were executed. I used the military review where
I was to have been murdered as an occasion to announce that I
would not make any further inquiry into the matter. I said that un-
like my predecessor I was not afraid of sudden death by treachery.
Why should I be when I had received a warning from Zeus him-
self? "I am protected by the gods. When they decide that my work
is done then- and not until then-will they raise their shield.
Meanwhile, it is a most dangerous thing to strike at me." This
speech was much cheered, largely because the army was relieved
to discover that I was not one of those relentless tyrants who wish
to implicate as many as possible in acts of treason.
But while this matter ended well, my relations with the
magnates of Antioch were rapidly deteriorating. Three months
after our meeting, they had not only not fixed prices, they had
kept off the market the corn I had myself imported from Hiera-
polls. Prices were sky-high: one gold solidus for ten bushels. The
poor were starving. Riots were daily. I took action.
I set the price of corn at one silver piece for fifteen bushels,
though the usual price was one for ten. To force the merchants to
unload their hoarded grain, I threw on to the market an entire
shipment of corn sent me from Egypt for the use of the troops.
The merchants then retreated to the countryside, forcing up the
price of grain in the villages, thinking that I would not know what
they were doing. But they had not counted on thousands of
country people floeking to the city to buy grain. Their game was
fully exposed.
I was now ruling by imperial decree and military force. Even
so, the burghers, confident of my restraint (which they of course
took to be weakness), continued to rob the poor and exploit the
famine they had themselves created.
I again sent the senate a message, ordering the burghers to

[56o]




obey me. At this point several of the wealthier members (my own
appointees) saw fit publicly to question my knowledge of the
"intricacies of trade". A report of this rebuke was sent me while
the senate was still in session. I had had enough. In a rage, I sent
troops to the senate house and arrested the entire body on a
charge of treason. An hour later, thoroughly ashamed of myself,
I rescinded the order, and the senators were let free.
Criticism of me now went underground. Rude songs were sung
and anonymous aliatribes copied and passed around. The worst
was a savagely witty attack, composed in elegant anapaests. Thou-
sands were amused by it. I read it, with anger. These things always
hurt no matter how used one is to abuse. I was called a bearded
goat (as usual), a bulbbutcher, an ape, a dwarf (though I am above
the middle height), a meddler in religious ceremonies (yet I am
Highest Priest).
I was so much affected by this attack that on the same day that
I read it I wrote an answer in the form of a satire called "Beard-
Hater". This was written as though it were an attack by me upon
myself, composed in the same style as the unknown author's work.
Under the guise of satirizing myself, I made very plain my quarrel
with the senate and people of Antioch, pointing out their faults,
much as they had excoriated mine. I also gave a detailed account
of how the speculators had deliberately brought on famine.
My friends were appalled when I published this work, but I do
not in any way regret having done so. I was able to say a number
of sharp and true things. Priscus thought the work ordinary and
its publication a disaster. He particularly objected to my admitting
that I had lice. But Libanius felt that I had scored a moral victory
against my invisible traducers.

Libanius: I do regard "Beard-Hater" highly. It is beautifully com-
posed and though there are echoes in it of many other writers
(including myself!) I found it altogether impressive. Yet Julian
somewhat misrepresents me in suggesting that I approved of the
work and thought its effect good. How could I ? It was an un-
heard-of gesture. Never before had an emperor attacked his own
people with a pamphlet! The sword and the fire, yes, but not
literature. Nor had any emperor ever before written a satire upon
himself.
Antioch laughed. I remonstrated with friends and fellow
senators, reminding them that the patience of even this unusual



emperor could be strained too far. But though the arrest of the
senate had certainly frightened them, the subsequent counter-
manding of the order had convinced them that Julian was mad, but
in a harmless way. There is of course no such thing as a harmlessly
mad emperor, but my constant exhortations were ignored. Luckily,
I was able to save Antioch from Julian's wrath, for which I was
credited at the time. All this, naturally, has been forgotten or
twisted by malice into something other than the truth. There is
nothing so swiftly lost as the public's memory of a good action.
That is why great men insist on putting up monuments to them-
selves with their deeds carefully recorded, since those they saved
will not honour them in life or in death. Heroes must see to their
own fame. No one else will.
I should note-I will note when I assemble this material for
the final edition -that the senate did have a case against Julian.
Though a few senators were speculators, most of them had not
taken advantage of the famine. Their only fault had been negli-
gence in not preparing for the scarcity, but if negligence in states-
men were a capital offence there would not be a head left in any
senate in the world. When Julian's message was read to us, it was
received most respectfully. Yet everyone agreed that his abrupt
underpricing of grain would result in a worse shortage than the
overpricing of the speculators. As it turned out, the senate was
right. The grain which had been sold so dramatically below cost
was soon gone, and the shortage was as bad as before.
I suspect Julian of wanting to make himself popular with the
mob. He had hoped to win their support against the wealthy
Christian element, but he failed. Our people can be bought rather
cheaply, but they are far too frivolous to remain bought. Also, he
neglected to hold down the price of other commodities, and it is
the luxuries, finally, that are the key to the Antiochene heart. So
his attempt at price-control was a failure, just as Diocletian's
had been. Perhaps if Count Felix had lived the thing might have
worked, for he was most brilliant in these matters and all his life
had searched for a prince who could put into effect his quite
elaborate system of economic controls. Myself, I tend to believe
with the conservative element that inflation and scarcity must be
endured periodically and that in time all things will come more
or less to rights. But then I am neither trader nor fiscal agent . . .
merely Stoic !
Count Felix, incidentally, had literary ambitions, and I once

[362]



spent a pleasant afternoon with him at Daphne in the house of a
mutual friend. The count read us a most entertaining set of verses
on- I believe- the pleasures of agriculture. Odd because he was
very much a city man. I remember his saying that my essay "For
Aristophanes" had opened his eyes to a whole new view of that
superb writer.

Julian Augustus
Shortly before noon on 2 December, a messenger came to me
with the appalling news that once again Nicomedia had been struck
by earthquake. Everything that had been rebuilt was thrown down.
As soon as I heard the news I went outside. The day was dark
and cold, and a thin rain fell. I walked to the garden just north
of the riding ring, and there I prayed to Zeus and to Poseidon. All
day I prayed, while the rain continued to fall and the cold wind
to rise. Not until sundown did I stop. Two days later I learned
that the tremors ceased at exactly the moment I began my prayers
in the garden. So what had been the worst of signs became the
best: the gods still look favourably upon me, and answer my
prayers.
A week later I was deeply saddened, though not surprised, to
learn that my uncle Julian had died in his sleep. The Galileans
promptly declared that he had been struck down by the Nazarene
for having removed the treasure from the charnel house in Antioch.
But of course his illness preceded this act by some years. Actually,
I am surprised that he lived as long as he did, considering the
gravity t}f his illness, I can only assume Asklepios must have blessed
him.
I was fond of my uncle. He was a good and loyal functionary;
he was also the last human link with my parents. His only fault
was the common one of avarice. He could never get enough money.
In fact, our last meeting was spoiled by a small quarrel about the
Bithynian farm my grandmother had left me. He was furious when
I gave it to a philosopher friend, even though the land was not
worth one of the gold vases he used to display in his dining-room.
I seemed to have missed the fault of avarice. I have no desire to
own anything. No. On second thought, I am greedy about books. I
do want to own them. I think I might commit a crime to possess a
book. But otherwise, I am without this strange passion which
seems to afflict most men, even philosophers, some close to
me.



Priscus: An allusion to our friend Maximus. He was at this time
buying real estate in Antioch with the money he obtained from
selling offices and titles. Looking back on those days, I curse my-
self for not having leathered my own nest. Unlike Julian, I am
rather greedy, but I am also proud and the excessiveness of my
pride prevents me from asking anyone for anything. I cannot easily
accept a gift. Yet I could steal, if I thought I would not be caught.
Julian's uncle was an amiable man, though overzealous as an
official. He once told me that his sister Basilina, Julian's mother,
had been extraordinarily ambitious. When she was pregnant with
Julian, he asked her what sort of life she wanted for her child, and
she replied, "There is only one life for a son of mine. He must be
emperor."
Julian used to describe his mother (from hearsay) as having been
quite blond. She was indeed. According to her brother, she was
an albino. I once made love to an albino girl in Constantinople.
She had the most extraordinary blood-red eyes, like an animal's.
The hair of course was absolutely white, including the pubic hair.
I believe she was called Helena.

Libanius: How interesting

Julian Augustus
On x January 363, I became consul for the fourth time in
association with Satlust. Naturally, there were many complaints,
since Sallust was not of senatorial rank. But I ignored custom.
Sallust is my right arm at Gaul. I also appointed Rufinus Aradius as
Count of the East and filled a number of other offices, mostly in
the West. I was now ready for the Persian campaign. I waited only
upon the weather.
On the Kalerids of January I went to the temple of the Genius
of Rome to make sacrifice. Here, on the steps, were assembled most
of the city's priests and high officials. As I was completing the
ritual, I happened to look up just as one of the priests fell the
length of the steps. Later I learned that the priest who had fallen
was not only the oldest but he had fallen from the highest step,
dead of a heart attack.
By nightfall all Antioch had interpreted this to mean that he who
is highest (oldest) in the state will fall from his great place (the top
step), dead. So my days are supposed to be numbered. But I interpret
the omen another way. The dead priest was on the top stair. Our

[364]




highest rank is consul. There are two consuls. The dead priest was
the oldest priest. Sallust is many years my senior. If either of us
dies, the omen suggests it will be Sallust, not I. Of course the whole
thing might possibly have no significance at all. Perhaps I should
listen more to Priscus, who does not believe in signs.

Priscus: Indeed I don't! I am sure that if the gods (who probably
don't exist) really wanted to speak to us, they could find a better
messenger than the liver of a bull or the collapse of an old priest
during a ceremony. But Julian was an absolute madman on this
subject. And I must say, even though I don't believe in omens, I
was impressed by the number of disasters reported. Among them:
the second earthquake at Nicomedia, the first in the Jewish temple,
the burning of the temple of Apollo, and as if all these "signs"
were not bad enough, Julian sent to Rome for a consultation of
the Sibylline books. As we all know, these "books" are a grab bag
of old saws and meaningless epithets, much rewritten at morhents
of crisis. But bogus or not, their message to him was clear: Do not
go beyond the boundaries of the empire this year. I never heard
him reinterpret that sentence. I can't think why I am recording all
this. I don't believe any of it, but then Julian did, which is the point.
True or false, these signs affected his actions.
There was one more bit of nonsense. The day that Julian left
Antioch for Persia, an earthquake shook Constantinople. I told
Maximus that if he told Julian what had happened, I would kill
him. As far as I know, he never said a word.

Julian Augustus
Late in February I completed plans for the Persian campaign.
Word was sent the legions that we would start moving east during
the first week of March. I also sent a message to Tarsus, instructing
the governor that his city would be my winter quarters, as I would
not return to Antioch. My private letter to the governor was
immediately known to the senate of Antioch, and they were most
contrite. Would I not reconsider ? I would not. And so I was ready
to depart, in good spirits, except for the fact that Oribasius, sud-
denly ill of fever, was not able to accompany me. This was a blow.
But I shall see him later in the year at Tarsus.
The day before I left Antioch, I had a final meeting with
Libanius. Getting to know this wise man was perhaps the only good
experience I had in that terrible city. He had been unable to attend



a dinner I had given the night before, because of gout. But the next
day he felt somewhat better and was able to join me while I was
exercising at the riding ring.
It was the first spring-like day. Air warm, sky vaporous blue,
first flowers small but vivid among winter grass. I was practising
sword-play with Arintheus and though we had both started the
exercise in full winter uniform, by the time Libanius had joined us,
we were half-stripped and sweating freely in the sun.
Libanius sat benignly on a stool while we banged at one another.
Arintheus has the body of a god and is far more agile than I, but
my arms are stronger than his, so we are well matched. Besides it
is not humanly possible for a mere army commander to defeat an
emperor, even in mock combat.
Finally, Arintheus, with a mighty cry, struck my shield a fierce
blow which caused me to stagger back. He was almost upon me
with his blunt practice sword when I raised my hand majestically
and said, "We must receive the quaestor Libanius."
"As usual, when I'm winning," said Arintheus, throwing his
weapons to the nearest soldier to catch. Then, wearing only under-
shorts, he sauntered off.
"The young Alcibiades," said Libanius, appreciatively, watching
the muscular figure as it disappeared into the barracks.
I wrapped myself in a cloak, breathing hard. "Let's hope he
doesn't take to treason like the original." I sat in my folding chair.
There was a long pause. Aware then that U~banius had something
private to say to me, I motioned for the guards to fall back to the
edge of the riding ring.
Ulbanius was unexpectedly nervous. To put him at his ease, I
asked him a question about philosophy. Answering me, he
recovered his poise. Even so, it was some time before he got the
courage to say, "Augustus, I have a son. A boy of five. His
mother . . ." He stopped, embarrassed."His mother is a slave ?"
"A freedwoman. She was my slave."
I was amused by this unexpected sign of vigour in one in whom
I had thought such things had long since been forgotten. But then
Libanius had rather a scandalous reputation when he first taught at
Constantinople. He was often in trouble with young girls of good
family (and young boys, too), if one is to believe his envious rivals.
I do and I don't. There is usually some truth to gossip, except when
it concerns me!

[366]



"This child - his name is Cimon - cannot of course be made my
legal heir. Up till now I've been able to provide for him. But when
I die, he'll be penniless, no better than a slave. In fact, he could be
sold into slavery if he were not protected."
"You want me to recognize him as your legal heir ?"
"Yes, Augustus. The law of course . ."
"... is quite clear. It cannot be done. But I can get round it by
special decree. Make out a deposition, and I'll present it myself to
the Consistory." He thanked me profusely. I had never before seen
Libanius humanly moved; it was most impressive. Usually, he is
entirely the philosopher, serene and explicit, his only passion that
for ideas. But now he was a father, and I was touched.
We then spoke of the coming campaign. I asked him to come
with me, but he pleaded infirmity and I was forced to agree that a
man with failing sight and severe gout would find life in the field
torture.
"But I do wish, my dear friend," (now that Libanius was no
longer a subject asking a fayour of his ruler, he reverted to
being teacher with pupil) "you would reconsider this military
adventure."
"Reconsider ? I have no choice. We are at war."
"We have been at war for many years with Persia. But war does
not necessarily mean invasion this year.""But the omens . . ."
"The omens are not good. I have heard about the Sibylline
books."
There are no secrets. I cursed silently to myself, wondering who
had betrayed me. I had expressly forbidden the priests from Rome
to tell anyone what the books advised. "I have reinterpreted the
prophecy," I said flatly. "Besides, both Delphi and Delos are
favourable."
"Augustus." He was now solemn. "I am sure that you will defeat
Persia. I have perfect faith in your destiny. I only wish that you
would put off going until next year. You have set in motion a
hundred reforms. Now you must see to it that they take effect.
Otherwise, the Galileans will undo everything the moment you are
out of sight. You cannot control them from the field or even from
the ruins of Ctesiphon."
Libanius is right of course and I continually worry, particularly
now, at what is happening in my absence. But I told him what I
believe to be true: that as conqueror of Persia I would be more

[367]



than ever awesome to the Galileans, who would see in my victory
a clear sign of heaven's favour to me. This useful end is worth a few
months' confusion at home.
Libanius was not convinced, but he said no more and we talked
of other matters. I find him inspiring, though somewhat long-
winded, a traditional fault of great teachers. I am sure that I would
be long-winded, too, except for the fact that in conversation I can
never sustain any subject for very long. I shift rapidly from point
to point, expecting those who are listening to fill in the gaps. They
often don't. But in talking with Libanius there are no gaps or in-
completed sentences. Listening to him is like being read to from a
very long book, but what a splendid book !

Since I am writing these notes as history as well as for my own
amusement, I should perhaps set down the reasons for this present
war with Persia. One of the faults of most historians is that they
take too much for granted. They assume that the reader must
know the common things they know; therefore, they tell only the
uncommon things, details ferreted out of archives and from private
conversations. It is frustrating to read most history, because so
many times one can see the author hovering on the verge of ex-
plaining some important fact and then shying away out of fear
of dullness; everyone knows that:, the author says to himself, and
I won't bore the reader (and myself) by telling him what he already
knows.
But if one is writing to be read a hundred years from now or,
with luck (and a continued interest in one's period), even a thou-
sand years, like great Homer, then all those things we take so
much for granted today will be quite unknown to those who come
after. So we must explain things that every schoolboy now living
knows. For instance, everyone knows that Constantius would not
eat fruit, but is it likely that anyone will know - or care - in the
next century ? Yet it is a point to be made about him, and worth
exploring on religious grounds.
I confess that I do have some hope of being read by the future,
not because of my negligible literary art nor because of my deeds
(though I hope they will be great), but because I am an emperor
and I mean to be candid. Such autobiographies cannot help but be
interesting. Marcus Aurelius is the supreme example. But the other
memoirs which have come down to us are also interesting,

[368]



especially the commentaries of Julius Caesar and the fascinating if
calculated memoirs of Octarian Augustus. Even Tiberius's clumsy
autobiography is interesting, particularly his attack on Sejanus...
There! I have strayed from my point. I ask the pardon of my
poor secretary, who can barely keep his eyes open as I talk, faster
and faster, for in my fatigue I often have the most extraordinary
bursts of clarity. At such moments the gods are near; my beloved
Hermes hovers at my side. But in the interest of good form, I shall
of course revise all that I have dictated, cutting out those parts
where I tend to ramble.
The future will want to know why I am invading Persia. I am
quite sure that there are many at this very moment who do not
understand what I am trying to do. It is of course taken for granted
that we must protect our boundaries and occasionally annex new
provinces. Though Salutius and the literary men who are with
me know how this war started, I am confident that neither Nevitta
nor Arintheus has the slightest idea why I have taken the field
against Sapor. Nor do they care. They think I want plunder and
military glory, because that is what they want. We!~', I am not
without a certain love of worldly glory- though I deplore it in
myself- but that is not why I must prosecute this war. Persia (or
Parthin as we ceremonially call it in imitation of our ancestors)
has always been the traditional enemy of Rome. There have been
occasional generations of peace, but for the most part we have
been in conflict ever since the wars against Mithridates brought
Rome to Parthia's border four centuries ago.
The present war began in an almost frivolous way. Some thirty
years ago an adventurer named Metradorus made an expedition
to India. He was received generously by the king of India, who
presented him with a number of gifts from the king to the Emperor
Constantine. As I piece together the story, this Metradorus was
a singular liar and schemer. When he returned home he gave Con-
stantine the Indian presents but claimed that they were his own
gifts to the emperor. Then, afraid that Constantine might wonder
why there was no gift from the king of India, Metradorus declared
that there had indeed been m~ny rich gifts, but that the Persians
had confiscated them en route, in the name of Sapor.
Constantine, partly out of greed, partly out of policy, wrote
Sapor, demanding that he return the gifts. Sapor did not deign to
answer him. Constantine sent another angry letter (copies are to be
found in the Sacred Archives). Finally, Sapor answered: he
[g69]



demanded Mesopotamia and Armenia as rightful territories of the
Persian crown; there was no mention of the presents. Constantine
declared war on Sapor, but before he could take the field he was
dead.
For most of Constantius's reign~ Sapor was relatively inactive.
He had political problems in his own country. But then in 358,
he sent Constantius a most arrogant embassy, again demanding
Mesopotamia and Armenia. Much alarmed, Constantius sent an
embassy to Ctesiphon, headed by Count Lucillianus and my cousin
Procopius. Our ambassadors were duly alarmed by Sapor, and they
advised Constantius to maintain the status quo. But even this was
not possible when Sapor laid siege to the border city of Amida,
leading his army in person; an innovation, by the way, for in the
old days the Great King never appeared in battle, his life being
considered too sacred to risk in combat.
Amida fell. It was a terrible defeat for Rome. Sapor was surpris-
ingly merciful to the inhabitants. Even so, we have lost an impor-
tant city, and our border defences are dangerously weakened.
When I succeeded Constantius, I looked through all his military
papers and talked with his commanders, but I could not find what
if any plan he had for defeating Sapor. I was forced to start from
the beginning. Now I am ready.
It is my plan to conquer Persia in three months. I have no
alternative. For if I fail none of the reforms I have proposed will
ever come to pass, nor can our state long survive between the
continual harassment of the Goths on our borders to the north and
the Persians to the east. Also, and I confess it honestly, I want the
title Parthicus after my name and an arch to my memory in the
forum at Rome. Not since Alexander has a Greek or Roman com-
mander conquered Persia, although some, like Pompey, pretended
to, after small victories. I dream of equalling Alexander. No, I
must be honest: I dream of surpassing him ! And are we not one, in
any case ? I want India. I want China beyond. Upon the shore of
that blood-dark sea to the farthest east, I would set the dragon
standard and not simply for the glory (though the very thought of
it makes me dizzy .,~.. oh, where is philosophy now?), but to
bring the truth about the gods to all those lands bending towards
the sun, the god from whom all life flows. Also, Persia is to me a
holy land, the first home of Mithras and Zarathrustra. It will be,
for me, a homecoming.
I always keep a biography of Alexander at my bedside. It is

[370]




finished with living it. He intended to write an account of his
Persian campaign and the notes he made during those last months
are fascinating.
I hope my occasional commentary has not been too burdensome.
I think it is always good to get as many viewpoints as possible of
the same event, since there is no such thing as absolute human
truth. You should be pleased at Julian's final reference to you. He
admired you tremendously. I cannot think what he meant when
he called you "long-winded". You are merely thorough. But then
Julian was often like a child whose span of attention is capricious.
I shall be very curious to see what you do with this memoir.
By the way, whatever happened to your son Cimon ? Did Julian
make him your legal heir? Naturally, one has heard of Cimon's
exploits as a lawyer, but I never realized he was a child of yours.
You are full of surprises.

Libanius to Priscus                         Antioch, ]uly 380
I have been working for some weeks on my preface to the
memoir of Julian, which will, I hope, set this work in its proper
historical frame. May I say that your notes have been of the
greatest-perhaps even decisive- value to me ? Just this morning
as I was reviewing the last pages of the work, so tragically cut
short, I noticed a phrase of yours which had escaped my attention.
You say that Julian was planning to write an account of his Persian
campaign. You then add: "the notes he made during those last
months are fascinating". Is there more text? I had thought the
memoir was all that was left. Do let me know, for I am impatient
to start a final "shaping" of the work.
Yesterday I paid a call on my old friend Bishop Meletius. You
recall him, I am sure, from your visit here. He is much aged and
rather fragile, but he has kept all his wits. I intimated that ! might
be doing a new work on Julian, using previously unpublished
material. He thinks this might be a mistake. "Theodosius is a
Spaniard," he said, meaning, I suppose, that the Emperor has all the
stern uncompromising violence of that race. "It is one thing to send
him a graceful essay 'On Avenging Julian', whose merit was literary
rather than political", (I thought my work highly political) "but it
is quite something else to challenge the Church, especially now
that the Emperor has been saved by Christ." I never know if
Meletius is serious or not. His tendency to be ironic has so increased
with age that he seems never to mean what he says.

[372]




Meletius also told me that the Emperor expects to be in Con-
stantinople this autumn. So I shall wait until then to see him. I
also learned that the poisonous Gregory, now a bishop, is urging
that a new Ecumenical Council meet next year, probably in the
capital. There is also talk that he is angling to be made bishop of
Constantinople. No doubt of it, his career has been a success. But
then those people usually do well. I extend my best wishes to your
wife Hippia, and of course to yourself.

Added: Julian died before he was able to legitimize my son. Due
to religious bigotry and the continuing perseverance of academic
enemies, none of Julian's successors was willing to do the humane
thing in this matter. I now pin my hopes- without much hope-
on Theodosius.

Priscus to Libanius                    Athens, September $8o
You must forgive me for not answering your letter earlier, but I
have been ill. A mild stroke has drawn down the side of my mouth
in a peculiarly sinister way. I now look like one of the infernal
deities and country folk make the sign to ward off the evil eye
when they see me tottering along the road to the Academy.
Happily, my mind is not affected. If it is, then - equally happily -
I don't know it. So all's well.
It is now definite that Theodosius will spend the winter at
Constantinople and you ought to go see him. It's only a ten-day
journey. He is reasonable, I am told, but much impressed by his
miraculous recovery. Whether he would sanction your project is
another matter, but you can lose nothing by trying. He won't eat
you. Also your being a friend of the Empress in the West will do
you no harm. She is most active politically and, some say, had a
hand in her husband's raising Theodosius to the purple. Use her
name freely. But then I hardly need advise the famous quaestor of
Antioch in how to put a case!
Yes, Julian left a considerable journal describing the day-by-day
campaign. I have been annotating it with a thought perhaps of
publication, though I should need at least some of your courage to
go through with it, for this work is far more dangerous than the
memoir. Julian knew all about the plot against his life; as did I. I
also know what he did not, the identity of his murderer.
I have nearly finished the work of annotation. I have been
slowed up recently as a result of my stroke, but I hope to get at it
[373]

iincn›~



soon again. If I decide not to punish, I should of course be pleased
to sell you the work at the same price you paid for the memoir.
The cost of copying is still what it was here at Athens. If anything,
it has gone up.
I hope your vision is not any worse; at our age nothing gets
better. My student Glaucon was delighted to meet you last spring
when he delivered the manuscript, but saddened to find your sight
so greatly impaired. Oribasius used to have a non-surgical cure for
cataract, but I have forgotten it. Look in his encyclopedia. It should
be in the latest edition, but if you don't have that, look it up in
Galen. That's probably where he got it from.
Hippia sends you her best wishes, as always. She is eternal. She
will bury us all. She certainly looks forward to burying me. We
spend quite a lot of time eyeing one another, each speculating on
which will outlast the other. Until this stroke, I thought I had a
clear edge. Now I'm not so sure. She was quite thrilled when I was
sick, and gay as a girl for several days "looking after" me.

Libanius: On top of everything else, Priscus is a thief. Our agree-
ment was plain. I was to get everything Julian left for the original
price. Then he holds back the most important work of all and
there is nothing I can do but submit to this robbery and pay the
price! I must say I hope Hippia will soon be a widow. Priscus is a
terrible man !

Priscus to Libanius                       Athens, October 380
Here is the journal, as I promised. I have done extensive notes,
which you are free to use in any way you like. I have been some-
what weakened as a result of my stroke, but so far neither my
memory nor the ability to string together sentences seems to be
affected. Some of these notes have been dictated, as you will notice
when you see Hippia's childish handwriting. I pay her to be my
secretary. She will do anything for money. To this day she
denounces me for not having made us a fortune when, as a friend
of Julian's, it would have been so easy, as you well know. Though
of course your fortune was made long before Julian became
Emperor. I was much impressed the first time I visited you at your
Antioch mansion and you told me, with perfect casualness, that
you had just sent a cargo ship to Crete. Fortunate Cimon to have
such a wealthy father! I am sure Theodosius will legitimize him
for you.

[374]



I have talked- very discreetly- to several people close to the
court and they agree that the Emperor would probably stop pub-
lication of any work which showed Julian in too favourable a
light. Needless to say, I did not mention that there was both a
memoir and a journal in existence. But it is perfectly plain that if
Theodosius and his bishops knew about these works they would
do everything possible to destroy them, just as they labour so
devotedly to distort the history of Julian's reign. It is the perquisite
of power to invent its own past. Julian must be obliterated or at
least made monster before the Christian Empire can properly be
born. I don't mean to sound discouraging, but there it is.
I must confess that I'm relieved to have got Julian's papers out
of my house and into your most capable hands. I tell you these
things simply to put you on your guard, for one of those I talked
to at some length was the celebrated Ausonius, who is very much
in favour at court. I flattered him unmercifully when he visited
here last month.
Ausonius is a small stately man who gives an impression of great
dignity and power until he starts to speak. Then one knows he is
simply one of us, a nervous clerk, embarrassingly anxious to be
admired. He also stammers. He was pleased, he told us in his
speech at the proconsul's reception, to be in such a distinguished
assemblage of intellectuals and magistrates, particularly because
he liked to think of himself as a "sort of bridge between the two".
We wagged our tails fiercely at this to show that we loved him
and wanted fayours. When he finished, he nicely took my arm
and told me how much he admired me. What could I do but quote
his own poetry to him ?
"I have always admired you, P-P-Priscus, and I am g-g-glad to
find you still alive and well."
"So am I, Consul." I beamed down at the absurd figure in its
consular robe. t then praised his many books, and he praised my
many silences. The academicians all about us watched me with a
quite satisfying envy. Then, rather skilfully I think, I brought
Julian into the conversation.
Ausonius frowned. "We aren't very happy with him of course.
Not at all. No, not at all."
I murmured the ancient saw about the rarity of human happi-
ness. Almost any quotation from Sophocles has a soothing effect.
"Theodosius is most displeased about the body. Most unhappy.
But she insisted."

[375]




"What body ? Who insisted ?" I was at sea.
"His. Julian's. It's been m-m-moved. From Tarsus to Constanti-
nople. The Emperor Gratian ordered it, or to be p-p-precise, his
w-w-wife?' P's, W's and M's are Ausonius's main obstacles. Having
told you this, I shall no longer try to dramatize his speech.
After much spluttering, I learned that your friend the Empress
Postuma, last of the Flavians, suddenly realized that her blood was
also Julian's and that the new dynasty's legitimacy rests upon that
frail fact. So Postuma got her husband Gratian to move Julian's
remains from Tarsus to the Church of the Holy Apostles at Con-
stantinople. At this very moment Julian's body is lying beside
Constantine's mother Helena. How each would have hated that
proximity! Though Ausonius did not mention it, I suspect that
both Postuma and Gratian are aware for the first time what a great
man Julian was. They live in Gaul, and for the Gauls Julian is the
only emperor since Augustus. I am told by everyone who comes
from there that he is still spoken of with awe and affection, and
that the common people believe that he is not really dead but
sleeping beneath a mountain, guarded by the dragon of his house,
and should the West ever be in danger, Julian will awaken and
come to the defence of the Rhine. It will take some doing to
destroy his legend in Europe.
We spoke of you. Ausonius admires you. Who does not ? He
told me that Theodosius admired your "graceful" (!) essay "On
Avenging Julian", but took it as a rhetorical exercise. I am sure
that is not how you intended it, but I suggest you allow the
imperial adjective to be your own.
"What would be the feeling in court if I were to publish a book
about Julian, covering, say, the Persian campaign ?"
Ausonius picked a word beginning with "m" and nearly choked
to death. Finally, in bursts, he told me, "Never! Theodosius and
Gratian both regard him as the devil. Only out of courtesy to
Libanius, who is old, did Theodosius accept the essay. But nothing
more. Ever! We don't mean to persecute pagans of course," (the
"we" reminded me of Maximus; do all busy friends of princes
use "we" in that awful way ?) "but we shall make it as disagree-
able as possible for them to worship in the old way. You've read
the two edicts ? There will be others. I can give no details of course.
Premature."
"But Libanius was able to write a defence of Julian."
"Once. Only. We've also heard he's planning a book about

[376]



Julian." (No, I did not tell him.) "Discourage him, as a friend.
Also, there is a private matter he would like attended to. I'm not
free to say what it is, but he has already sent us a request. Well,
one hand washes the other, as they say. Do tell him." I suppose
this refers to the matter of your natural son Cimon. Anyway, that
is the gist of my talk with Ausonius. Perhaps you can do better
yourself face to face with the Emperor.
Here then is the journal. Some of it is cryptic. There are many
lacunae. I have tried to provide as many missing pieces as possible.
For weeks now I have been reliving that tragic time and I am
amazed at how much I was able to recall when I set what is left
of my mind to the task.
My mouth is still ominously twisted but vision and speech are
unimpaired, to the surprise of my doctor. I almost wrote "dis-
appointment". Doctors like for one's decline to be orderly and
irrevocable. How is your gout? Your eyesight? Hippia, whose
exquisite penmanship you have been reading, sends you her
respects (she has given me such a sweet smile!), as do I.

[377]



The Journal of ]ulian Augustus
Callinicum on the Euphrates,                                    27 March 363
Waiting for the fleet. They should have been here when we
arrived. Callinicum is a rich city, strongly fortified. Morale is good.
Dictating this while riding in a carriage to the river. Today is the
festival of the Mother of the Gods. There is a great ceremony at
Rome. I hold a small one here. The sun is hot. People crowd about
the carriage. I dictate to the secretary. I wave to the crowd. I am
in ceremonial vestments. Maximus and Priscus are with me. The
local priests are waiting at the river bank. The people who crowd
around are dark-skinned with long thin arms that reach towards
me like the tentacles of some twisting vine. They chatter, shrill as
Egyptians.

Priscus: This is the first entry. Most of the journal is written in
Julian's own hand. He usually wrote late at night, after he had
finished dictating his memoir. I recall this particular day in
Callinicum as one of the "good days". They were so few that each
is relatively vivid in my mind.
Several thousand people lined the Euphrates when we arrived
for the ceremony. A few were pious, most were merely curious.
The Euphrates is a broad muddy river set in rolling country, at this
season green.
Julian handled the ceremonies with his usual efficiency. This
particular bit of nonsense involved the immersion and ritual
washing of the carriage in which the image of the goddess
is carried. Julian was thoroughly soaked but happy as he carried
out his duties as Pantifex Maximus. Later he gave us dinner
(if mashed beans, native bread and fresh tough venison can
be called dinner) in the prefect's house. We were all in excellent
spirits.
As I wrote you in one of my letters (at least I think I wrote you:
I often don't remember nowadays whether something I meant to
say I did say or not), the generals were seldom a part of Julian's
inner circle. For one thing, they don't stay up late; while Aristotle,
as the beautiful Arintheus so often used to say, makes the military

[~78]



head ache. Nevertheless, these particular officers were superior
men; and of course three of them became emperors.
The generals fell in two categories. The Christian-Asiatics and
the Hellenist-Europeans. The first group had been loyal to Con-
stantius; the second to Julian.
For the record, I give you my impression of the principal
commanders.

The Asiatics

Count Victor: In appearance, a typical Sarmatian, short, bandy-
legged, with a large head, pale eyes slanted like a Hun's. He spoke
both Greek and Latin with a barbarous accent. A devout Christian,
he was profoundly contemptuous of Julian's philosopher friends.
I always mistrusted him.
Arintheus: Julian has described him. Once his beauty has been
noted, there is not much else to say. He and Victor led the Christian
party.
Jovian: An extraordinarily tall man, even taller than I- or
would have been had he ever stood up straight. He tended to eat
and drink too much, though he never gained weight. He had the
reputation for being stupid, and I see no reason for altering this
common judgment. Jovian was well connected, which largely
explains his later moment of glory. His father was the famous
general Varronian, and his wife was the daughter of the egregious
Count Lucillianus. I am told that Jovian had a monstrous child-
hood, living under "field conditions" until he was seventeen. Old
Varronian was an insufferable martinet. Jovian commanded the
household troops.

The Europeans

Nevitta: He was a large man, red-faced, blue-eyed, perhaps forty
years old at the time. He was an illiterate boor but a fine soldier
and completely loyal to Julian. Even so, we all hated him. To his
credit he hated no one. We were beneath his contempt.
Dagalaif: He was an amiable sort. Stocky and fair (are all good
soldiers blond ? shall we offer this as a topic of debate for our
students?), Dagalaif spoke excellent Greek and Latin. He was a
marvellous cavalryman and much of Julian's legendary swiftness
was due to Dagalaif's ability to manceuvre men and horses. He

[379]



used to ask me for reading lists. He longed to be civilized. Three
years later, when he was made consul, he wrote me a panegyric,
with surprisingly few mistakes.
Salutius Secundus: A mild, elderly man. We got on famously,
though he had almost no conversation. In that sea of youth our
grey hairs and ageing muscles called out to one another, like to
like. As praetorian prefect he spared Julian many tedious details.
He was an excellent administrator who would have made an
admirable emperor.

Among others of the court, I should mention the chief marshal,
Anatolius, a nice fat little man who managed to create quite a lot
of confusion in a position where one is supposed to make order.
Also, the notary Phosphorius, whose family forced him to enter
the civil service. Solely through merit and hard work he rose to a
place on the Consistory; his career was unique. I have never known
another like it. As for Julian's philosopher friends, you met them
all at Antioch. The only new addition was the Etruscan high priest
Mastara. He was exactly what you might think.
On the march, we would usually make camp at sundown. As
soon as Julian's tent was raised, we would dine with him, Maximus
and I, and sometimes one or another of the commanders. At first
Julian was in marvellous spirits. He had every reason to be. Sapor
was demoralized at the speed of our attack. The weather was good.
The countryside was rich in grain that soon would come to harvest.
All things promised well, except the omens.
Julian's tent was a plain affair, necessarily large 'but simply
furnished, not half so comfortable as the tent of any of his
generals. As I recall, there were two large folding tables, a number
of folding chairs, stools, and several large chests containing state
papers and the small library Julian always travelled with. There
were several tripod lamps, although seldom was more than one lit
at a time. Julian wondered if he was mean: yes, he was mean,
but compared to the lavish waste of his predecessors this was a
virtuous fault. In a corner, his black lion-skinned bed was screened
by a woven Persian rug.
Julian was invariably dictating when we presented ourselves.
He would smile at us and indicate that we sit down without once
breaking the flow of his thought. He did an amazing amount of
work, nearly all of it necessary. He conducted a lot of business
usually left to notaries or eunuchs. When he had completely

[380]



exhausted one set of secretaries, he would send for another. All
complained that he dictated too fast. And he did, as if he suspected
there was hardly time to put on paper all the ideas he h.ad in his
brain. We know his famous postscripts, No sooner was a letter
sealed than he would have it opened again so that he could scribble
some afterthought in his own hand, apologizing with his usual
phrase, "I write fast, without taking breath." His fingers were
always black with ink by the time we arrived for supper.
Before we ate, Maximus or I would read him Homer and he
would wash his hands in a plain earthen jug, listening all the time.
The meal was always simple. But then you know his crotchets
about food. I usually had another dinner later that night. I am sure
Maximus ate before. Sometimes we would be joined by Salutius,
an intelligent man for a general, or by Arintheus, whom I always
thought a bore. Incidentally, Arintheus was in Athens several years
ago. I was shocked to see him. He is now stout and bald, and
though he was no favourite of mine, I nearly wept at what time
had done. But tears were stopped by his conversation, which had
undergone no change. When he saw me at the proconsul's recep-
tion, he gave a loud empty laugh and shouted across the room in a
voice hoarse from battle and wine, "That Aristotle of yours still
makes my head ache!" And that I'm afraid is all that passed
between us after so many years and so much history.
As I have said, the philosophers and warriors seldom mingled.
That night in Callinicum was one of the few occasions when
Julian's two worlds confronted one another.
I sat in a corner and watched Julian play his various roles. Up
to a point, we all tend to assume different masks with different
people. But Julian changed completely with each person. With
the Gallic soldiers, he became a harsh-voiced, loud-laughing Gaul.
With the Asiatics, he was graceful but remote, another Con-
stantius. Not until he turned to a philosopher friend was he him-
self. Himself? We shall never know which was the true Julian, the
abrupt military genius or the charming philosophy-mad student.
Obviously he was both. Yet it was disquieting to watch him be-
come a stranger before one's eyes, and an antipathetic one at that.
I was joined in my corner by Victor. He asked if he could sit
down. I beamed fatuously. Why are we all so physically awed by
soldiers ? "By all means, Count," I dithered. He sat down heavily;
he smelled of wine but he was not drunk.
"You're a long way from the Academy at Athens." he said.

[38~]

~ maffy



I agreed. "But then Gaul was a long way, too, and the Battle
of Strasbourg." Silently I cursed myself for having boasted of a
military career. The ideal philosopher would have conducted the
conversation entirely in his own terms; he would never compete
in an alien field. But then I am not the ideal philosopher. Everyone
says so.
"Yes... Gaul," he said, as though that were enough. I could
not divine his mood or attitude. We were both silent, watching
Maximus as he held a number of the young officers spellbound with
some nonsense or other. His flowing beard was exquisitely combed
and he wore a robe of saffron-yellow silk, the gift of a magician in
China, or so he said. He probably found it in the market at Antioch.
"Can you make your gods appear ?" asked Victor suddenly, "the
way he does ?" Because Victor would not dignify Maximus by
giving him a name, my heart went out to him, briefly.
"No," I said. "The gods rather leave me alone. But then I make
no effort to talk to them."
"Do you believe ?" He spoke with such passionate urgency that I
turned to look at him. I have never seen such cold eyes as those
which stared at me beneath thick pale brows. It was like coming
face to face with a lion.
"Believe in what?"
"Christ."
"I believe that he existed." I was myself again. "But I don't think
of him as a god."
Victor was again the Roman commander. "It will be a long cam-
paign," he said, as though speaking of the weather. "But we shall
win it."

[ulian Augustus                                      3 April
We are at Circesium, ninety-eight miles south of Callinicum.
We have been here two days. All goes well.
On 28 March while I was still at Callinicum, four tribes of
Saracens appeared at the city's gate. Their princes wished to speak
to me. Now the Saracens are among the most savage and unreliable
of this world's races. They live in tents in the desert. They never
build so much as a hut nor till an acre of ground. Restlessly, they
roam through the deserts of Assyria, Egypt, Morocco. They live
on game, wild birds, whatever grows of itself. Few have tasted
grain or wine. They love warfare, but on their own terms. They
are good at striking swiftly (their ponies and camels are especially




bred for fleetness), but since they fight only for plunder, they are
useless in a formal engagement. They are best at scouting and
harassing an enemy.
Salutius did not want me to see them. "They will offer to help
you. Then they will make the same offer to Sapor - if they haven't
already - and betray you both."
"5o we shall be on our guard." I was not in the least disturbed.
I received the Saracen princes. They are small, sinewy, dark
from the sun. They wear full cloaks to their knees. Beneath their
cloaks, they wear only leather drawers. Of the dozen princes, only
one could speak Greek.
"We come, Lord, to pay homage to the ruler of the world." The
Saracen then motioned to one of his fellows, who gave him an
object wrapped in silk. The prince removed the silk to reveal a
heavy gold crown. Hermes knows what king lost it to them. I took
the crown and made them a little speech, to which the prince re-
plied, "Lord, we wish to fight beside you in your war against Sapor.
Our courage is known to all the desert. Our loyalty to our ruler is
so far beyond that of the merely human that it partakes of the
divine..." 5alutius cleared his throat but I did not dare look at
him. "Therefore, Lord, with us beside you in the desert, you need
never fear . . ."
At that moment Nevitta broke into the meeting, to the horror
of Anatolius. "Caesar, the fleet is here !" I'm afraid we all behaved
like excited children. I turned the Saracens over to Salutius. Then,
followed by the entire Consistory, I made my way to the docks
where, as far as the eye could see, the river was filled with ships.
5o W.S., 64 P.B., I,~o3 C.S., Ct. Luc.

Priscus: This entry breaks off here. The abbreviations mean that
there were ~~o ships of war, 64 pontoon boats used for making
bridges, ~4o3 cargo ships containing food, weapons, foundries,
siege engines; Count Lucillianus was in charge of the fleet. As you
will recall, he was the commander at SirinJure whom Dagalaif
captured in the middle of the night. Though he was a ridiculous
creature, Julian used him because he was an important strand in
that web of men and families which governs the world. Despite
the vastness of the empire, the actual rulers are a small, close-knit
family. Every general knows or has heard of every other general,
and they talk of nothing else except, "How is old Marcellus ? still
with the same wife ? got a different post ?"

[383]



Lucillianus was waiting at the fiver bank when Julian and the
Consistory arrived. He greeted Julian with meticulous ceremony
and formally turned the fleet over to him. Suddenly Dagalaif
said, "Lucillianus, where's your nightshirt?" Everyone laughed
except Julian, who muttered, "Shut up, Dagalaif." I noticed
that Lucillianus's son-in-law Jovian scowled. He was less than
amused.

Iulian Augustus                                    4 April
I have been working for three hours on my memoir. It is nearly
dawn. My voice is hoarse. The secretaries have just gone. I scribble
these random notes. We are still at Circeslum. It is a large city, well
fortified by Diocletian. The city occupies a promontory between
the Euphrates River and the place where the Abora River empties
into the Euphrates. The Abora is the traditional border between
Rome and Persia. Circesium is our last important outpost. From
now on we shall be in enemy country.
All night the troops have been crossing the river. The engineers
are complaining because the river is swollen with spring rains. But
engineers always complain. So far their pontoon bridge is holding.
Scouts report no sign of the Persian army. The Saracens tell me that
Sapor is astonished at the suddenness of our attack. Apparently, he
did not expect us until May. That means he has not yet assembled
his army. All of this is marvellous for us. Yet I am not so energetic
and hopeful as I ought to be. For one thing, I have just received a
long letter from Sallust at Paris. He is unimpressed by the good
omens. He begs me not to cross into Persia. Like Libanius, he
wishes I would remain at Constantinople and execute the reforms
I have proposed. As usual he puts his case superbly, and I am
thoroughly depressed.
Tonight I sent away everyone except Maximus. I showed him
what SaIIust had written, remarking that since Sallust was seldom
wrong when it came to politics, we ought at least to consider his
advice. Maximus agreed. He praised Sallust at extraordinary length
and I wonder how I had ever got the impression they were not
friends. For almost an hour Maximus and I discussed the pros
and cons of the Persian campaign. We agreed it must continue;
although Maximus pointed out that there were any number. of
precedents for assembling an army and then not using it. Con-
stantius used to do this every year, maintaining that the assembling
of an army is in itself a deterrent; perhaps it is.

[3843



"But then of course $allust does not know what we know," I
said at last, referring to Maximus's vision of Cybele.
"There is something else he does not know." Maximus fixed me
with those luminous eyes which have looked upon so many secret
and forbidden things. "Something I have not told even you."
There was a long silence. I knew Maximus well enough not to
hurry him. I waited, heart's blood pounding in my ears.
Maximus got to his feet. The robe of yellow silk fell about him
in hieratic folds. In the wavering lamplight he cast a huge shadow
on the wall. I felt the imminence of some extraordinary force, that
premonitory chill which signals the approach of deity. To ward
off demons, Maximus drew a circle around us with his staff. Then
he spoke.
"Last night~ at the darkest hour, I summoned from the depths
of Tartarus, Persephone herself, the Queen of all the Dead that
are and ever shall be."
The lamps flickered; his shadow danced upon the wall; though
the night was warm, I shivered with cold.
"I asked her the one question that must not be asked, but since
the question concerned not me but you, not you but Rome, not
Rome but the worship of the gods, I believed that I could ask this
awful question without incurring the wrath of the Furies, or
tangling the web of Fate."
I knew the question. I waited. I could hardly breathe. Maximus
drew precautionary symbols on the floor, murmuring spells as he
did.
"I asked: 'Dread Queen of Tartarus, tell me the place where
your loyal son Julian will meet his death.'"
Maximus suddenly stopped. His hand went to his throat. He
choked; he stumbled; only by clutching at his staff was he able to
keep from falling. Something invisible wrestled with him. I did not
move to help him for fear of breaking the power of the circle he
had drawn. At last he was free. "Demons," he whispered. "But we
have the highest power. Helios is our shield .... Persephone said,
'While all men mourn and all gods rejoice at a new hero come to
Olympus, our beloved son Julian will die in Phrygia.'"
Maximus's voice faded as though from great weariness. I sat
very still, cold as my own Phrygian death. Then Maximus clapped
his hands and said in a matter-of-fact voice, "We are quite a long
way from Phrygia, my dear fellow."
I laughed weakly, from relief. "And if I have my way, I shall

~'ce

tin,



never set foot in that province again." I then told Maximus that I
had been told the same thing by Sosipatra. He was most surprised.
He had not known.
"In any case, you see now- why I am not concerned by Sallust's
letter. Persephone has spoken to us. You know what few men have
ever known, the place of your death.""And the hour?"
"... impossible, for that would be an affront to Fate herself.
But we do know that you will survive the Persian campaign. If
you survive it, that means you will have conquered."
"Like Alexander!" In a rush my confidence was restored. Am I
not Alexander come again to finish the great work of bringing to
the barbarous East the truth of Hellas ? We cannot fail now.

Priscus: That was Maximus at his very best, and further proof
that Sosipatra and Maximus were in league together. Maximus
should have been an actor. But then he was an actor, and Julian
was his devoted audience.
I don't remember much else about Circesium except that a
supply master was executed because the grain barges he had
promised for 4 April did not arrive. An hour after the wretch was
put to death, the barges were sighted. It was an unpleasant business
and Salutius, who had ordered the execution, was most unhappy
at what he had done.
At dawn the next day, unable to sleep, I walked to the river bank
where Salutius sat in his praetorian prefect's chair, while the army
laboriously crossed the pontoon bridge into Assyria, as that part
of Persia is called. I remember that cool dawn as though it were
today's. A pale pink light in the east, the Abora River muddy and
swollen, the cavalry on the bridge, horses shying, men cursing,
armour rattling. As far as the eye could see men waited, their
armour gleaming like stars in the first light, their voices un-
naturally subdued, even apprehensive, for it had been many years
since a Roman army had pursued the Great King into his own land.
I sat on a stool beside Salutius while aides came to him at regular
intervals: could the Tertiaci Legion cross before the Victores, who
weren't ready ? in what order were the siege engines to be moved ?
were the Saracens to cross now with the cavalry or later with the
infantry ? Patiently, Salutius kept all things in order.
In between messengers, we chatted. I asked him bluntly what
he thought of the campaign. He shrugged. "Militarily, we have

[386]



nothing to fear from the Persians." He indicated the legions about
us. "These are the best soldiers in the world, and the Emperor is
the best general. We shall beat them in every battle."
"But they avoid battles. And this is their country. They know
how to harass an enemy."
"Even so, we are the superior force. Only . . ."
"Only ?" Salutius studied the list of legions which rested on his
lap. "Only?" I repeated.
But at that moment a centurion rode up, cursing the Saracens,
who insisted on crossing at the same time as the cavalry "with
those damned wild horses of theirs!" Salutius soothed the man,
effected a compromise, by which time a notary had come to tell
me that the Emperor wished me to attend him. As I left, Salutius
said, "Be on your guard, Priscus. We are not safe." An understate-
ment, as it turned out.

Julian Augustus                                      6 April
I crossed the Abora River yesterday afternoon. As Highest Priest
I made sacrifice to Zeus. All omens were good except one: my
horse nearly rode over the body of a quartermaster who had been
executed by order of the praetorian prefect. Luckily, one of my
aides pulled the horse to one side, nearly unseating me in the
process.
We then rode some fifteen miles to a village called Zaitha, which
means "olive tree" in Persian. The day was cool, and our spirits
were high. Miles before we got to Zaitha we could see its principal
monument, the tall circular mausoleum built for the Emperor
Gordian. In 2zt2 Gordian conducted a successful campaign against
the Persians. Two years later he was murdered by his own men,
who had been incited to mutiny by an Arab named Philip who
became- briefly- emperor. A sad story, and typical. How often
have emperors won great victories and saved the state only to be
struck down by an unsuspected rival ! Gordian decisively defeated
the Persian king at Resaina, only to be murdered by Philip. As a
result, a lasting victory over Persia was promptly thrown away
by that pusillanimous Arab who wanted only to loot an empire
gained by murder.
We stopped for an hour at the tomb, which is in good repair
since the Persians respect monuments to the dead, while the roving
Saracens fear all buildings. I offered a sacrifice to Gordian's spirit
and prayed that I be spared his fate. I must get a biography of him.



I know almost nothing of his life, except of course that he was a
friend of Plotinus. Maximus says Gordian still haunts this part of
the world, demanding vengeance. Unhappy spirit!
While we were still at the tomb, Nevitta got me to one side.
He was troubled because, "The men believe this is the first time
Romans have ever invaded Persia. They believe that..." he
gestured to include all the south . . . "this country has a spell
on it."
We were standing in the shadow of the tomb. I reached out my
hand and touched the rough-hewn tufa. "Here is the proof that we
have been in Persia before."
"Exactly, Emperor. They say that this old emperor was killed by
Persian demons because he dared to cross the Abora River. They
say lightning struck him dead. They say Persia is forbidden to us."
I was astonished. Nevitta, who fears no man, is frightened of
demons. I spoke to him as teacher to child. "Nevitta, Gordian
defeated the Great King in a battle one hundred and twenty years
ago. Then he was killed by his own men. The Persians had nothing
to do with his death. They are not demons. They are men. Men
can be defeated, especially Persians. We have defeated Persians
many times before."
Nevitta almost asked "when ?" but then he thought better of it.
After all, as a Roman consul he is expected to know something of
Roman history. Yet as far as I know, he has never read a book of
any kind, though in preparation for this campaign he told me,
quite seriously, that he was studying Alexander. When I asked
which biography he was reading, he said, Alexander and the
Wicked Magician, a popular novel!
I reassured Nevitta. I told him about the victories of Lucullus,
Pompey and Ventidius, Trajan, Verus and Severus. Apparently,
these names had a somewhat familiar ring and he looked relieved,
I did not of course mention our defeats. "50 tell the soldiers that
their fear of the Persians is the result of Constantius's fear of war."
"You tell them, Emperor." Nevitta is the only man who
addresses me by that military title. "They don't know these things.
And there's a lot of talk about how bad things are going to be."
"The Galileans ?"
Nevitta shrugged. "I don't know who starts it. But there's talk.
You'd better give them one of your history lectures." That is the
closest Nevitta ever comes to humour. I laughed to show that I
appreciated his attempt.



"I'11 speak to them when we get to Dura." Nevitta saluted and
started to go. I stopped him.
"It might be useful . . ." I began. But then - I don't know why
- I chose not to finish. "Tomorrow, Nevitta."
He left me alone in the shadow of the tomb. I had meant to ask
him to find out who was spreading rumours. But I thought better
of it. Nothing destroys the spirit of an army more quickly than the
use of secret agents and midnight interrogations. Even so, I have
been warned. I must be on guard.
We set out for Dura. We were only a few miles south of Zaitha
when two horsemen appeared from the east, carrying something in
a sling between them. At first I thought it was a man, but when
they came close I saw that it was a dead lion of great size. Maximus
whispered excitedly in my ear, "A king will die in Persia!" But
I had already got the point to the omen quite on my own. I also
refrained from making the obvious retort: "Which king?" But as
this Persian lion was killed by Roman spears it seems likely that
the Persian King Sapor will be killed by Roman arms.
This lion, incidentally, was the first I'd ever seen close to; even
in death, he was terrifying, with teeth long as my thumb and yellow
eyes still glaring with life's hot rage. I ordered the lion skinned. I
shall use its pelt for my bed.
As we continued towards Dura, the sun vanished, the sky turned
grey, lightning flashed. A violent thunderstorm broke. We were
all soaked and chilled by the rain, but we continued our march.
Shortly before evening, Victor rode up to me. "Augustus, a
soldier has been killed by lightning." Though Victor is a Galilean
he has the usual military man's interest in omens. "The soldier was
watering two horses at the river when the storm broke. He was
just about to lead them back to his cohort when he was struck by
lightning. He was killed instantly.""What was his name ?"
"Jovian, Augustus." I pretended to take this merely as an added
detail. "Bury him," I said, and rode on. Maximus was the first to
speak. "The sign is ambiguous. The fact he is named after the king
of the gods, the thunderer Jove himself, does not necessarily mean
that a king is involved." But I did not listen. This was a matter for
the Etruscans.
We made camp on the outskirts of Dura, a long-deserted town
whose houses of brick are slowly returning to the dust from which
they were shaped by dead hands. The streets were empty except

[389]

e hot,



for herds of deer. I allowed the men to kill as many as they could
for food. It was an amusing sight to see our best archers and
cavalrymen careering through muddy streets in pursuit of the deer,
who promptly fled to the river and, like seasoned troops obeying
an agreed-upon plan, swam to the other side. In midstream the
bargemen killed many of them with their oars.
That night Maximus, Priscus and I dined on fresh venison in my
tent. Afterward we were joined by the Etruscan priests. Their
chief is an elderly man named Mastara. He is held in high regard at
Rome, where he used to be consultant to the senate. I record here,
privately, that Mastara has been against this campaign from the
beginning. He even interpreted the killing of the lion as unfavour-
able to me.
In general, the Etruscan religion is well known; in particular, it
is obscure. From the beginning of time, the genius of the Etruscan
religion has been its peculiar harmony with the natural forces of
creation. The first revelation is known to all. Tages, a divine child,
appeared in the field of a peasant named Tarchon, and dictated to
him a holy book which is the basis of their religion. Later Vegoia,
a young goddess, appeared during a ceremony to the thunder god
and gave the priests a second book which contained instructions
on how to interpret heavenly signs, particularly lightning. Accord-
ing to this book, the sky is divided into sixteen parts, each sacred
to a particular god (though the same god may at times influence a
section not his own). One can discover which god has manifested
himself by the direction from which the lightning comes, the angle
at which it strikes, and of course the place where it strikes.
Mastara wasted no time. He had already analysed the death of
the soldier Jovian. "Highest Priest, the lightning came from the
ninth house." I knew what this meant even before he interpreted it.
"The house of Ares. The house of war. At the eleventh hour Ares
struck down the soldier Jovian beside the river to our west. That
means a soldier from the west, a king, will be killed late in a war.
We are now making projections as to the exact day and hour of
this king's death. By tomorrow we should be able to tell you when
this . . . warning shall become fact."
There it was. We were all quite still for several moments.
Maximus sat opposite me, hand wound in his beard, eyes shut as
though listening to some voice within. Priscus shifted his long frame
uneasily on a hard bench. The Etruscans were motionless, their
eyes downcast.

[~9o]



"The king," I said at last, "could be Sapor."
"Highest Priest, Sapor does not come from the west."
"Nor do I, to be exact." I was ready to quibble as people always
do when a prophecy has gone against them. "I come from the
north. The only kings hereabout who are from the west are the
Saracen princes. My own interpretation is that one of them will
die in battle."
"Then shall we continue with our projection, Highest Priest ?"
Mastara did not show emotion. He was a priest speaking to his
superior, correct, demure, obedient.
"No," I said firmly. "I see no need. But to the extent that the
army is apt to hear of your first interpretation, I must ask you to
allow the second - and correct - interpretation to be generally
known."
Mastara bowed. He and his priests departed. Priscus gave that
dry chuckle of his. "I see now why the early emperors always
insisted on being Highest Priest, too."
"I don't think I misinterpreted the sign." But realizing this
sounded weak, I turned to Maximus for help. He opened his eyes.
Then he leapt to his feet and turned first west then east then north
then south. "Not even a Saracen!" he said abruptly. "Africa.
Mauretania. There is the doomed king."
At first I wondered if perhaps Maximus was not trying deliber-
ately to raise my spirits, but as he was in such an exuberant mood
for the rest of the evening I now believe him. I have just written a
letter to Sallust, asking him to send me news of the Mauretanian
kings.
It is daybreak. I have not slept in twenty-four hours, nor will
I sleep for another twelve. We must be on the march within the
hour. I hear my servant Callistus outside the tent, giving the guam
the password. I must now make notes for the speech I give to the
troops today. My head is empty. My eyes burn. How to begin ?

Priscus: The speech was a success. If Julian was tired, he did not
show it. Incidentally, in his description of that s~ance with the
Etruscans he omits my remark to him, "What is the point of listen-
ing to soothsayers, if you won't believe what they tell you ?" But
Julian was very like the Christians who are able to make their hol7
book endorse anything they want it to.
Julian's speech had a good effect. In the briefest but most con-
vincing way, he explained to the men how often Roman armies

1~ ~cn
peopl

~tgh,



had won victories in this country and he warned them against
listening to defeatists, particularly those who had been set among
us by the Persians, whose cunning and treachery he emphasized.
When he finished, there was a great racket of approval. The Gauls
were vociferous, but the eastern legions were unenthusiastic, par.
ticularly Victor's cavalry. I mentioned this later to Julian. Yes,
he had noticed it, too. "But they don't know me. The Gauls do.
When they've won a few battles and looted a few cities they will
love their leader." Julian the practical soldier, not the Hellenic
humanist !

Julian Augustus                                     ~4 April
L. Arin., Orm., Cav.; R. Nev. Tert., Pet., C.; C. inf. J . . . Dag.,
Vic.; Van. I5oo sc.; Pyrr.; Luc. fleet; Anatha island: Luc.
Waiting. Cyb. Mith. Her.

Priscus: I think I can interpret this entry. Julian is noting for him-
self our military order during the march south. On the right, skirt-
ing the river bank, Nevitta commanded the Tertiaci, Petulantes and
Celts. In the centre Julian commanded the main part of the infantry
-the baggage and the philosophers were also in the centre. On
the left - or east - Arintheus and Ormisda commanded the cavalry.
Though Ormisda was an infantry general, in the field there is
a good deal of shifting back and forth of high-ranking officers.
Dagalaif and Victor brought up the rear, while 1,5oo mounted
scouts ranged the countryside before us. Lucillianus commanded
the fleet which accompanied us downriver.
"Anatha island: Luc Iooo?" refers to the first Persian strong-
hold we came to, a heavily fortified island in the middle of the
river, four days' march from Dura. Julian sent Lucillianus with
a thousand light-armed troops to make a night landing under the
walls of the fortress. As there was also a heavy mist that evening,
Julian hoped to take the island by surprise. But at dawn the mist
suddenly lifted and a Persian soldier sent out to draw water, seeing
Lucillianus's men, shouted a warning and that was the end of
Julian's surprise attack.
A few hours later, Julian crossed over to the island. One look
at those huge walls decided him against a siege. He would have to
take the fort by other means. Incidentally, this was to be his policy
during the whole campaign. Between the Roman border and
Ctesiphon- a distance of more than three hundred miles- there

[392]



were a dozen fortresses and walled cities. Julian had the power to
take any one of them but at the cost of weeks' or even months'
delay. He could not afford this. So he chose to isolate the fortresses,
knowing that once the Great King fell all the cities would be his.
Julian sent word to the governor of Anatha that he would spare
the lives of the garrison if they surrendered. The governor asked
for a parley with Ormisda. Julian describes this in the next entry.
"Waiting." These notes were made late in the night of the four-
teenth when Lucillianus was still hidden on the island.
"Cyb. Mith. Her." A prayer: Cybele, Mithras, Hermes.

Julian Augustus                                   rS April
Anatha has surrendered! Our first victory on Persian soil. At
noon the governor of the island, Pusaeus, asked me to send him
Ormisda to work out the details of the surrender. I confess I was
nervous while awaiting the outcome of the conference. Pusaeus
could so easily murder Ormisda. But less than an hour after
Ormisda entered the fortress, the gates swung open and a garlanded
ox was led forth by a Persian priest as sign of peace. There was
a great cheer from our legions. Then Ormisda and the governor
appeared Pusaeus is a dark intense man, reputedly a good soldier
(why else would he have been entrusted with this important fort ?).
He saluted me as he would have saluted the Great King, flat on his
belly. Then, face full of dust, he asked me what I intended to do
with the inhabitants of the town.
I motioned to Anatolius and his notaries to join us. Then I said,
"GOvernor, since you have shown yourself friendly to us and
honourable in your dealings, we shall, at our own expense, move
your people to Syria, to the city of Chalcis, where they will be
able to live as they have lived here."
He thanked me warmly, his head rolling about in the dirt until I
told him to get up. Pusaeus then asked me if I would take him into
the Roman army. I turned to Ormisda. "Should I ?"
Ormisda's face is a sea of delicate responses; by the slightest
quiver of a brow or the flaring of a nostril he is able to communi-
cate without words. The face said: beware! The voice said, "Yes,
but perhaps not here, perhaps with a garrison in Spain or Egypt."
So I made Pusaeus a tribune and posted him to Egypt.
All this took place in the main square of Anatha, a town of
wood and thatch and mud brick, exactly like every other town,
Persian or Roman, in this part of the world. While we talked, the

[393]



people passed by us. The women balanced rolls of bedding and
clothing on their heads while the men carfled weapons and cook-
ing utensils. Suddenly a frail old man, supported by two women,
approached us. He gave me the Roman salute and said in soldier-
Latin: "Maximanus, foot soldier with the Ziannis, reporting for
duty." He stood shakily at attention. I looked at him with wonder.
"Where are you from ? Who are you ?"
"A Roman soldier, General. In the army of Galerius Augustus."
Salutius said flatly, "That's impossible. It's a hundred years since
Galerius died."
"No, Prefect," said the old man (he still knew a praetorian
prefect when he saw one), "Galeflus was here sixty-six years ago.
And I was with him. I was eighteen years old. I'd enlisted at
Philippopolis in Thrace. We won great victories here."
"But why are you still here ?" Easily the most fatuous question
one could ask a man in his eighties. But I was quite overwhelmed
by this relic of another age.
"I fell ill with the fever. My tribune, Decius - never got on with
him - thought I was going to die. So he left me here with a family
who said they'd bury me properly when the time came. Then the
army left." He laughed, an old rooster cackling. "Well, they haven't
buried me yet. You can see that, I guess! And they're all gone:
Galeflus, Decius, Marius . . . he was a good friend, but got the
pox . . . he's gone, too. So the family here that was willing to
bury me took me in and I married two of their daughters. Both
good girls. Dead now. These are later wives." He indicated the
women who stood, ready to support him should he stumble.
"General, I beg one fayour."
"Whatever I can grant," I said.
"I have sworn that I would die on Roman soil and be buried in
Roman earth. Send me back to Thrace."
"So be it, soldier." I motioned for Anatolius to arrange the
matter. The old man then kissed my hand and I looked 'down with
wonder at the back of his shrivelled neck, lined as old parchment
and burned dark by the fierce suns of nearly a century. What must
it be like to have lived so long ? With some difficulty, his wives
got him to his feet. He was breathing hard from the exertion. He
looked at me curiously.
"You are the Emperor of Rome, aren't you ?"
I nodded. "Do you doubt it ?"
"No, no, Lord. They told me that the Roman general was also

[394]



the Emperor and that's when I advised the town council to sur-
render. 'You haven't a chance,' I said, 'not when there's an Emperor
on the loose and the Great King out there, hidden in the desert,
frightened out of his wits. Better surrender,' I said. Didn't I,
Pusaeus ?"
"Yes, Augustus, he did say so."
"This Pusaeus is married to a grandchild of mine, which makes
him part-way to being Roman. They're a good people, you know,
the Persians. I hate to see them hurt."
"We shall be as merciful as we can."
"I've had a good life here." He looked about him vaguely. Then
his eye caught on the standard of the Ziannis. "There's my legion !
I must talk to those boys. I knew their fathers, grandfathers any-
way. Yes . . ." He started to walk off but then, recalling me, he
stopped. "Thank you, General."
"Thank you, soldier, for remaining loyal to Rome all these
years."
"You know, General . . . Lord, I don't follow too much what
happens in the world outside of the province here because there's
so little news and what there is makes no sense because they're
capital liars, the Persians. They can't help it, you know, they don't
mean any harm by it. It's just their way. But I did hear word of a
great emperor who they call Constantine. That's not you, is it ?"
"No, but there was such an emperor and he was my uncle."
"Yes, yes." The old man was not listening. He frowned, trying
to recall something. "There was also this young officer who was
with us in 297 ú ú ú well-connected, he was, his name was Con-
stantine, too. I often wondered if it was the same fellow. Do you
know if he was ?"
Constantine had indeed served one year with Galerius in Persia.
I nodded. "It could have been the same," I said.
"He looked a bit like you, only he was clean-shaven. A nice
enough young chap, though we none of us thought he'd ever
make a soldier, liked the girls and the soft life too much, but
who doesn't?" He sighed contentedly. "So now I've seen three
emperors, and I'll die on Roman soil. And where's the tribune
Decius, I ask you ? who used to give me such a hard time and left
me here to die ? Where is he ? who remembers him, after all these
years? But I'm alive and I've been talking to the Emperor, to
Julius himself ! Now that's a great thing, isn't it ? So if you'll excuse
me, General, I want to go chat with those Thracian lads; maybe

ol bo
whir
: estal
'~re
s rulit



one is a grandchild to Marius, though they say when they get the
pox it makes the children stillborn or worse. He was a lovely
friend, Marius."
The old man saluted me and, helped by the two old wives, he
slowly crossed the square to the place where the standard of the
Ziannis had been set up. I was much moved by this encounter, even
though I had been called Julius !
When all the inhabitants had left Anatha, we set fire to the town.
Then I returned to our camp on the river bank to be greeted by
the Saracens, who had just captured a number of Persian guerrilla
fighters in the act of raiding our supplies. I gave the Saracens
money to show my pleasure, and told them to continue to be on
the alert. I also asked if the Saracen princes were safe. Yes.
It is late at night. I am pleasantly drowsy. Our first encounter
with the enemy has been all that I could have wished it. If it were
not for the rain which is falling and turning the floor of my tent
to mud, I would be perfectly content.

Priscus: The rain that night was accompanied by winds. The next
day, ~6 April, at about the third hour, we were struck by a hurri-
cane from the north. Tents were tipped by the wind, while the
river, already swollen from spring rains, overflowed and several
grain barges were wrecked. The dikes which control the flow of
river water into irrigation ditches broke and some suspected the
Persians of deliberately shutting the sluice gates in order to flood
our camp. We shall never know if they did or not. Anyway, after
two wet wretched days, we moved on.
Julian was in good spirits. We all were. The first Persian strong-
hold was ours and the Great King's army had vanished. It was too
good to be true.
Our army was stretched out over ten miles, much the same trick
Julian used when he came from Gaul, to give the impression of a
mighty host. Julian rode either at the head or at the rear of the
army, the two places most apt to be harassed by guerrillas, But we
did not come up against the Persians for some days. They kept to
the opposite side of the river, watching us. Whenever we made
as though to cross, they would disappear in the thickets of
wormwood. Yet they were very much on the alert. When
one of the Gauls- for reasons of his own- crossed over, he
was butchered and his head placed on a long pole in full view of
our army.

[596]



Incidentally, I lost my tent in the storm and for three nights I
was forced to share quarters with Maximus. We were not happy
with one another. Among other bad habits, he talked in his sleep.
The first night we slept together, I found his mumbling so unbear-
able that I woke him up.
"I ? Talking in my sleep?" He looked at me blearily, silver beard
tangled like fleece wool before carding, face stupid with sleep.
Then he remembered himself. "But of course I was talking. It is
in sleep I converse with the gods."
"Then could you perhaps whisper to them ? You're keeping me
awake."
"I shall do my best." He later complained to Julian that my
coughing had kept him awake! But I coughed hardly at all con-
sidering that I had caught a very bad cold as a result of being
soaked in the storm. Julian was much amused at the thought of
our sharing the same quarters.

]ulian Augustus                                   22 April
17 April, Thilutha, Achaiachalca. ~8 April, abandoned fort
burned. 20 April, Baraxmalcha, cross river 7 miles to Diacira.
Temple. grain. salt. bitumen springs. deserted. burned. to Ozogar-
dana. deserted. burned. monument to Trajan. two days in camp.
22 April, attempt to ambush Ormisda. Warning. Persian army
gathering tonight.

I~riscus: Between ~7 April and 20 April we passed three island
fortresses. The first was Thilutha, a mountain peak jutting out
of the water with a stronghold on the top of it. Julian sent a
messenger demanding surrender. The commandant sent back a
most courteous answer. He would not surrender, but he swore to
abide by the outcome of the Emperor's war with the Great King.
Since we could not waste time in a siege, we accepted the com-
mandant's reply. In return, the garrison saluted our fleet as it
passed beneath the walls of the island. The same thing happened at
Achaiachalca, another island fortress.
On 2o April we came to a deserted village called Baraxmalcha.
At Ormisda's suggestion we then crossed the river and marched
seven miles inland to Diacira, a rich market centre. The city was
odeserted when we arrived. Fortunately, the warehouses were filled
with grain and, most important, salt. Outside the town wall,
[597]

Julian

;lles



Nevitta's soldiers found several women and put them to death.
This did not sit well with me. I don't know if Julian knew about
these murders or not. He was ruthless when it came to punishing
disobedience and treachery, but he was not cruel, unlike Nevitta
and the Gauls, who liked blood for its own sake.
Diacira was burned, as was the near-by town of Ozogardana
where, incidentally, we found the remains of a tribunal of Trajan.
Julian made this relic centre to the camp that was pitched. We
remained there for two days while the grain and salt taken from
Diacira was loaded on to barges. During this time, Julian was busy
with his generals and I did not see him at all.
I contented myself with the company of Anatolius (who was
quite amusing, particularly about his failures as marshal of the
court), the admirable Phosphorius, and Ammianus Marcellinus,
whom I had met earlier at your house in Antioch. I liked him very
much. He told me that we had first met at Rheims where he'd
been on duty with one of Ursicinus's legions, though I'm afraid
I don't recall that meeting. As you know, Ammianus is writing
a history of Rome which he plans to bring up to date. Brave man !
Some years ago he sent me an inscribed copy of the first ten books
of his history, in Latin! Why he has chosen to write in that
language, I don't know. After all, he comes from Antioch, doesn't
he ? And I seem to have got the impression that he was of good
Greek family. But looking back, I can see that he was always some-
thing of a Romanophile. He used to spend most of his time with
the European officers, and he rather disliked the Asiatics. As a
historian, he has deliberately put himself in the line of Livy and
Tacitus .rather than that of Herodotus and Thucydides, showing
that there is no accounting for taste. He wrote me recently to say
that he is living at Rome where, though he finds the literary world
incredibly arid and pretentious, he means to make his mark. I wish
him well. I haven't read much of his history but he seems to write
Latin easily, so perhaps he has made the right choice. But what a
curious old-fashioned thing to want to be, a Roman historian! He
tells me that he is in regular correspondence with you. So I dare say
the two of you will join forces when the time comes to publish
the memoir.
The night of 22 April Ormisda was about to go reconnoitring
when he was nearly ambushed by a cohort of the Persian army.
Nobody knows how the Persians knew the exact hour he was
to leave the camp, but they did. Ormisda was saved by the un-

[398]



expected deepness of the river at that point. The enemy could not
ford it owing to the rains.
"Warning." I don't know what Julian means by this. Perhaps
a counterspy warned Ormisda at the last moment. Or someone
warned Julian of a plot against his life.
"Persian army gathering tonight." The next morning (23 April)
we finally saw the Persian army. Several thousand horsemen and
archers were assembled a mile from our encampment. In the morn-
ing's light their glittering chain mail made our eyes water. They
were under the command of the Grand Vizier, who is second only
to the Great King himself, a position somewhere between that of
a Caesar and a praetorian prefect. Associated with the Vizier's
army was a large band of Assanatic Saracens, a tribe renowned
for cruelty.
At the second hour, Julian engaged the enemy. After much
manceuvring, he got his infantry into position some yards from the
Persian archers. Then before they could fire, he gave the order for
an infantry charge at quick march. This manceuvre startled the
Persians just long enough for our men to neutralize their archers.
Infantry shields were thrust against archers in such a way that
the Persians could not take aim to fire. They broke and ran. The
field was ours.
Julian was delighted. "Now our soldiers know the Persians are
men just like ourselves!" He looked the perfect war god: face
flushed, purple cloak stained with the blood of others, eyes bright
with excitement. "Come along," he shouted to Maximus and the
philosophers who were now coming up to what had been the front
line. "Let's see the walls of Macepracta !"
None of us knew what Julian meant until he led us to a deserted
village near the battlefield. Here we saw the remains of an ancient
wall. Julian consulted a book. "This," he said, "is part of the
original Assyrian wall. Xenophon saw it when he was here 764
years ago." Happily, our victorious general clambered over the
stones, reading at the top of his voice from Xenophon's March
Upcountry. We all looked dutifully on what had been a ruin even
then, so long ago, but I'm afraid that after the stimulus (and terror)
of battle, no one was in a mood for sightseeing. Finally, Julian led
us back to the river.
On the outskirts of the encampment, a legion of household
troops were gathered around a rock on which stood their tribune,
haranguing them. He was tall, thickly muscled, with fair hair.

[399]

fi
penpl



"... you fear the Persians ! You say they are not men like us but
demons! Don't deny it! I've heard you whispering at night, like
children afraid of the dark."
The tribune's voice was strong. His face was ruddy and his eyes
were -what else ? blue. We dark-eyed people have lost the world
to those with eyes like winter ice. He spoke with a slight German
accent. "But now you've seen these demons close to. You beat
them in battle. Were they so fierce ? So huge ? So terrible ?"
There was a low murmur from the men about him: no, the
Persians had not been superhuman. The tribune was a splendid
demagogue. I looked at Julian, who had bundled his cloak about
his face as momentary disguise. He was watching the man with
the alert interest of an actor or rhetorician studying a rival's
performance.
"No. They are men like us. But inferior men. Look!" The
tribune motioned for one of his officers to step forward. The man
was holding what looked at first to be a bundle of rags. But it was
a dead Persian. The officer tossed the body to the tribune. He
caught it easily. The men gasped, impressed at the strength of these
two men who handled a corpse as though it were a doll.
The tribune with one hand held up the body by the neck. The
dead Persian was slight, with a thin black moustache and a fierce
display of teeth. His armour had been stripped away and the
remains were clad only in a bloody tunic. "There he is! The
Persian devil! This is what you were afraid of?" With his free
hand, the tribune tore the tunic away, revealing a slight, almost
childlike body with a black crescent beneath the breast-bone where
a lance had entered.
The tribune shook the body, as a hunting dog will shake a hare.
"Are you afraid of this ?" There was a loud response of "No!"
Then great laughter at the sight of the hairless smooth body, so
unlike us. The tribune tossed the remains contemptuously to the
ground. "Never again do I want to hear anyone whisper in the
night that the Persians are devils! We are the men who will rule
this land!" To loud cheering, the tribune stepped down from his
rock and walked straight into Julian. He saluted smartly, not at all
taken aback. "A necessary speech, Augustus."
"An excellent speech, Valentinian." For as you have doubtless
guessed, the tribune was our future emperor. "I want all my
commanders to give their troops the same . . . demonstration.
First-rate."

[4oo]



The soldiers promptly vanished, as soldiers tend to the moment
they realize the Emperor is among them.
Julian and his successor exchanged a few soldierly words. Then
as we were about to move on, Valentinian motioned to a young
cavalry officer who was standing near by, wide-eyed at the sight
of the Emperor. "Augustus, may I present to your my brother
Valens ?"
I often wonder what Julian would have thought if he had known
that in less than a year those brothers, sons of an Austrian rope-
seller turned general, would be co-emperors of East and West. I
suspect he would have approved of Valentinian, but Valens was a
disaster. And the fact that both were Christian would hardly have
pleased him. It certainly did not please us, did it ? I nearly lost my
life because of Valens. Maximus did lose his.
Then Julian left his successors, none aware of the future. If the
gods exist, they are kind. Despite oracles and flashes of lightning,
they tell us nothing. If they did, we could not bear it.
The next day we came to a place where the water of the
Euphrates was drawn off into a network of irrigation canals. Some
of these canals are a thousand years old and without them Persia
would not be the rich country it is. There were those who wanted
to divert the waters and cause the fields to dry up but Julian would
not allow this, pointing out that we should soon be living off the
produce of these same fields. At the beginning of the largest canal
was a tall tower, marking the source of the Naharmalcha (Persian
for "the king's river") which flows into the Tigris below Ctesiphon.
This river or canal was unusually swift from the rains. With diffi-
culty, pontoon bridges were constructed. The infantry got across
safely, but a number of pack animals were drowned in the current.
As I recall, there was some harassing of the cavalry by Persian
scouts, but they were soon driven off by our Saracen outriders.
On 28 April, after an uneventful march, we came to Pirisabora,
a large city with impressive high walls and towers burned by the
sun to the buff colour of a lion's skin. The river surrounds the city
naturally on three sides. On the fourth, the inhabitants have dug
a canal so that they are, in effect, an island and hard for an enemy
to approach. At the centre of the city on a high hill was a formid-
able inner fortress. I must say my heart sank when I saw it. The
siege of such a place could take months.
Julian sent his usual message to the city: if they surrendered, he
would spare the lives of the inhabitants. But Pirisabora was one of

[4ot]

~riend'.
~,' pl%
~ddo~

i}r th



the important cities of Persia, and the answer of its commandant,
Mamersides, was arrogant indeed. The city would not surrender.
But Mamersides would speak to Ormisda (apparently they had
been in secret correspondence with one another).
I was present when Ormisda, tall and glittering and very much
a Persian king, rode to the moat which separated city from main-
land. He reined in his horse at the water's edge. When the Persians
on the wall recognized him, they began a loud jeering and hiss-
ing. They called him "traitor" and worse. I was close enough to
Ormisda to see his sallow face set in harsh lines, but he did not
move or in any other way show that he had heard. For a full
half-hour he endured their insults. Then, seeing that there was to
be no dealing with these men, he motioned for his standard-bearer
to join him. This caused an even louder tumult. Ormisda's standard
was that of the Great King of Persia. Majestically, Ormisda with-
drew, and Julian ordered a s:,ege.
Unfortunately, Julian did not describe the siege and I don't
remember much about it. Perhaps our friend Ammianus will record
it. Military history is not really my forte. My chief memory of
this siege was a series of quarrels with Maximus. I shall spare you
the quarrels, since I've completely forgotten what they were
about.
The city of Pirisabora fell on the second day, after much fight-
ing. But the matter was not yet finished, for the army and the
governor promptly took refuge on their mountain top and there,
behind walls of bitumen and brick, strong as iron, they held
fast. Julian himself led the first attack on the citadel, and was
repulsed.
On the third day, Julian ordered a helepolis built. This is a tall
wooden tower which is used to scale even the highest walls. There
is no defence against it, not even fire, for it is covered with wet
hides. The helepolis was not needed. No sooner was it half
assembled than Mamersides asked for a truce. He was lowered
from the citadel by a rope which broke a few yards above the
ground; he fractured both legs. Julian was merciful. All lives
would be spared if the citadel was surrendered.
At sundown, some 2,5o0 Persians, men and women, issued
forth, singing a hymn of thanksgiving to the Great Lord who had
spared their lives and would now reign mercifully over them. Then
Pirisabora was burned to the ground. By this time, I was no longer
speaking to Maximus.

[,to2]



]ulian Augustus                                       3 May
3 squ. cav. Trib. killed. Viz. command. Standard lost! 2 Trib.
cash. dec. Stand. regained. speech. ioop. silv.

Priscus: I recall "3 squ. car. Trib. killed, etc.," vividly. The day
after the burning of the city we all dined at midday with Julian.
It was a pleasant meal and he was refighting the siege, as soldiers
like to do, the "what-might-have-happened-if" kind of thing, when
Anatolius came into the tent with the news that the Grand Vizier
had personally put to flight three of our cavalry squadrons, killing
one of the tribunes and capturing the regimental standard.
I thought Julian would have a stroke. He hurled his plate to the
ground and rushed from the tent, shouting for a call-to-arms.
Within the hour, the Vizier's force had been located, and our
standard regained. Within three hours, the two surviving tribunes
were cashiered and, of those who had fled before the enemy, ten
were executed, according to the old law of decimation. I had never
seen Julian so angry nor so much the classic general. He ordered
the entire army to watch the execution. When it was done, he
made a speech, warning against disobedience and cowardice, and
reminding the army that should anyone surrender to the enemy,
the Persians would hamstring him and leave him to die in the
desert. Then he praised the troops for the victory at Pirisabora,
and he gave each man a hundred pieces of silver.
Poor Julian ! Having so little interest in money himself, he could
never get sums right. He never knew the correct price of any-
thing, including the common soldier's loyalty. At the mention of
such a small sum, the army roared its displeasure and I was afraid
they would mutiny right then and there. But Julian was not intimi-
dated. He told them sharply that he himself was a poor man and
that the Roman nation was in straitened circumstances because so
many of his predecessors had used gold to buy a false peace rather
than iron to fight necessary wars. But he promised them that soon
they would be at Ctesiphon and the treasure of all Persia would
be theirs. This put them in a good humour, and they cheered him
and clattered their shields.

]ulian Augustus                                                          4 May
   14 miles. Floods. Halt. Bridges.

?riscus: The Persians broke the river dikes to the south of us and
we lost a day while boats and rafts were used to get across the

[403]




many pools the river water made. The countryside had become a
giant swamp. My chief memory is of giant blood-sucking leeches
clinging to my legs as I waded through muddy waters.

Julian Augustus                                                         7 May
  Maiozamalcha. Camp. Prepare siege. Ambush. Treason ?

Priscus: Three days later we came to Maiozamalcha, another
important city with great walls. Here Julian set up camp.
"Ambush" refers to what happened that evening. Julian and
several scouts made an inspection of the outer walls, to look
for points of weakness. While they were passing under the walls,
ten Persians slipped out of the city through a porter's gate and,
crawling on their hands and knees, took Julian and his scouts by
surprise. Two of them set upon Julian. He killed one, protecting
himself from the other with his shield. In a matter of minutes the
Persians were dead and Julian returned to camp, happy as a boy
with the dead Persian's weapons for trophy.
"Treason ?" How did the Persians know about this scouting
party? Julian was aware that his army was full of spies, not to
mention those who wished him harm. He suspected treason, and
he was right.,
The inhabYthnts of Maiozamalcha refused to surrender. So Julian
settled in for a siege. He was now fearful of the Persian army
which was supposed to be gathering just south of Ctesiphon. For
added protection, he erected a double palisade around our camp.

Julian Augustus                                      8 May
Cavalry under the Grand Vizier attacked pack animals in the
palm groves. No casualties for us. Several for them. Persians driven
off. Countryside is heavily wooded and full of streams and pools.
I always thought Persia was desert. How I should like to have the
leisure to turn Herodotus and describe this part of the world ! It is
so beautiful. Date palms and fruit trees abound. Fields are yellow-
green with new grain. This year's harvest will be a good one, and
ours !
I find particularly interesting the pools of naphtha, an oily
flammable substance which bubbles up from the ground. This
morning I ordered one of the pools lit. A column of fire leapt to



many pools the river water made."~The countryside had become a
giant swamp. My chief memory is of giant blood-sucking leeches
clinging to my legs as I waded through muddy waters.

Julian Aug,ustus                                                        7 May
  Maiozamalcha. Camp. Prepare siege. Ambush. Treason ?

Priscus: Three days later we came to Maiozamalcha, another
important city with great walls. Here Julian set up camp.
"Ambush" refers to what happened that evening. Julian and
several scouts made an inspection of the outer walls, to look
for points of weakness. While they were passing under the walls,
ten Persians slipped out of the city through a porter's gate and,
crawling on their hands and knees, took Julian and his scouts by
surprise. Two of them set upon Julian. He killed one, protecting
himself from the other with his shield. In a matter of minutes the
Persians were dead and Julian returned to camp, happy as a boy
with the dead Persian's weapons for trophy.
"Treason ?" How did the Persians know about this scouting
party? Julian was aware that his army was full of spies, not to
mention those who wished him harm. He suspected treason, and
he was right.
The inhabitants of Maiozamalcha refused to surrender. So Julian
settled in for a siege. He was now fearful of the Persian army
which was supposed to be gathering just south of Ctesiphon. For
added protection, he erected a double palisade around our camp.

Julian Augustus                                      8 May
Cavalry under the Grand Vizier attacked pack animals in the
palm groves. No casualties for us. Several for them. Persians driven
off. Countryside is heavily wooded and full of streams and pools.
I always thought Persia was desert. How I should like to have the
leisure to turn Herodotus and describe this part of the world ! It is
so beautiful. Date palms and fruit trees abound. Fields are yellow-
green with new grain. This year's harvest will be a good one, and
ours !
I find particularly interesting the pools of naphtha, an oily
flammable substance which bubbles up from the ground. This
morning I ordered one of the pools lit. A column of fire leapt to
heaven. The only way it can be put out is to smother the pool in

[404]



sand; otherwise, it may burn for years. I left the pool afire as an
offering to Helios.
Several prisoners from this morning's raid were brought to me.
They are curious-looking creatures and I examined them with
some attention, recalling one of the tribunes who recently showed
his troops a Persian corpse, saying: "See what you feared ? This is
the Persian devil, all of seven feet tall with arms of bronze and
breathing fire!" Then he showed them the remains of a fragile
creature more like a boy than a man.

?riscus: Traditionally the reporting of speeches in historical
texts is not meant to be literal. But my version of Valentinian's
comments was accurate because I kept a few notes at the time,
which I am using now in making this commentary. Yet here is
Julian less than a week later already altering the text. History is
idle gossip about a happening whose truth is lost the instant it has
taken place. I offer you this banality for what it is: the truth !

Julian Augustus                                       8 May
The Persians I examined were cavalrymen. They are small, wiry,
leaden-complexioned. Ormisda acted as interpreter. Though they
expected immediate death, they seemed without fear. One spoke
for all of them, a flood of words. When he was finally out
of breath, I asked Ormisda what he had said.
Ormisda shrugged, "Typically Persian." Ormisda was in his
Greek mood. "He hopes we choke in our pride and that the moon
will fall on our army and crush it and that the tribes of the desert
will rise up from as far away as India and China to butcher us. The
Persian style of address is always a bit exaggerated, particularly
the metaphors."
I laughed. I have always been more amused than not by Persian
rhetoric. It is characteristic of eastern peoples to talk always with
a mad extravagance. Even their diplomatic letters are often un-
intelligible because of Pindar-like excesses.
Ormisda replied in kind. The Persians listened contemptuously.
They are handsome men with pointed smooth beards and eye-
brows which tend to grow together. Their eyes are particularly
expressive, black and deep. They are quite slender because of their
austere diet. They eat only when they are hungry, and then very
little. They seldom drink wine. Their only excess (aside from
their conversation!) is women. Each man has as many concubines

[403]



as he can afford. They do not like boys. They are most modest
about their persons and it is considered shameful for a man to be
seen by another relieving himself in a natural way. I rather wish
our army would imitate their physical modesty. Yet for all their
virtues, they are not a likeable people. They are arrogant and boast-
ful and revel in cruelty. The nobles terrorize the lower classes as
well as the slaves, torturing or killing them as they please, and
there is no law to protect the helpless, nor any idea of charity.
Their laws are savage. For instance, if a man is guilty of a capital
crime, not only is he executed but all of his family as well.
"They are hopeless," said Ormisda wearily when the captives
were taken away. "The most foolish race on earth."
"But you are their Great King," I teased him. "And therefore
the most foolish of all."
"I've lived too long among you," he said sadly.
"But as a ruler you should be all the better for that. You can
change them."
"No change." He shook his head, "That is the point to Persia.
As we were, we are; as we are, we shall be. When I am Great King
(the Sun and Julian willing), I shall be Greek no longer. Plato
will be forgotten. I shall be like Darius and Cyrus, like Xerxes
and . . . yes, like my brother Sapor."
"An unreliable ally to Rome ?" I asked this jokingly, but I was
serious.
"What else ? I am the heir to the Sassanides kings. We are cruel
and extravagant." Then he smiled, winningly. "You'd be well
advised, Augustus, to kill aI1 the Persians, including me."
"Impracticable," I said, and changed the subiect. But I was
impressed by what Ormisda said, and uneasy. Should I keep a
Roman army at Ctesiphon and govern through a proconsul ? Or
would we fail in this the way our ancestors failed with the Jews ?
I wish Sallust were here.
We spent the rest of the day with the staff, preparing for the
siege of Maiozamalcha. The town is on high ground with a double
wall. It is well garrisoned. I have ordered a mining of the walls.
This is a good exercise we have not yet tried. Nevitta and Dagalaif
are at this moment digging tunnels beneath the walls. At dawn,
Victor and a number of cavalry scouts will reconnoitre as far as
Ctesiphon. There is a rumour the Great King's army is on its way
to us from the east, but it is only rumour.
Everything goes too easily. Yet why should I be surprised ? The

[406]



gods are with me and the spirit of Alexander whispers: advance,
to the farthest edge of the world!

Priscus: As usual the spirit of Alexander was over-ambitious. We
had enough troubles taking Maiozamalcha, much less India and
China. But at this time Julian was not mad, despite Maximus's best
efforts. There was no imme~iate plan to conquer farthest Asia.
Julian anticipated a short campaign in Persia, winter at Tarsus,
and then an expedition to India.
Julian does not describe the siege and fall of Maiozamalcha and
neither shall I. As I recall, the city was on a high bluff overlook-
ing the river. To get to it one had to climb steep cliffs, eminently
suited for defence. The first day a frontal assault was attempted.
It failed. Meanwhile, tunnels were being dug beneath the walls.
The second day the siege engines were brought up. The air was
filled with the roaring sound of rocks being catapulted against the
walls. The sun burned fiercely. Defenders and attackers were soon
exhausted. But Julian drove the men to the limit of their strength,
for he had no time to waste in a siege so near Ctesiphon and the
Great King's army. Finally, word came from the tunnel builders
that they were ready to break into the city. That night, Julian
attacked the walls with his army while the troops below ground
entered the city through the floor of the back room of an empty
tavern. The city surrendered.

o                                                                        [4o7)



XXI

Julian Augustus                                      ~ ~ May
We have had excellent luck. Maiozamalcha fell with few casual-
ties for us. I have just received Nabdates, the Persian commander.
He hailed me as Lord of the World and I have spared his life.
This should make a good impression. If the Persian lords believe
that I am merciful, they will be more apt to surrender when over-
whelmed. I hope so, since there is nothing so demoralizing for an
army as to fight long sieges for unimportant cities.
Nabdates swears that he does not know where the Great King
is, and I believe him. He suspects that Sapor is not at the capital
but somewhere to the south. In any case, we shall soon meet, the
Great King and I.
I write this in my tent beside the river. On its high hill the city
of Maiozamalcha burns like a torch in the black night. With
difficulty I prevented a slaughter in the city. The Gauls regard
Persian resistance as an affront; they always do. Incidentally, they
discovered several hundred women hidden in the citadel. They
promptly drew lots for them. At such times, the officers vanish
and the men take over. Quite by acddent, I happened to be near
the square during the lottery.
The women were huddled together, along with the city's
treasure: gold coins, ornaments, bolts of silk, whatever had been
found in the ruins had been brought together for a fair division.
One of the Petulantes, seeing me, shouted, "Something for Julian !"
So I joined the men on foot, like a legionnaire.
The centurion in charge of the lottery indicated one of the piles
of gold. "That's your share, soldier," he said, using the traditional
phrase. I thanked him and took a single piece of gold. Then the
men began to shout that I should take one of the women. They
know of course that I am celibate, and find this fact infinitely
comic. I refused amiably. But they kept pressing me. So I looked
at the crowd of wretched women, thinking to take a child and set
her free. But there was none, only a very handsome boy of about
ten. So I pointed to him. The men were delighted. Better a boy-
lover than a cellbate on the throne!
The boy turned out to be a deaf-mute of great intelligence. The
[4o81



signs he makes with his hands are swift and graceful and I find
that I can understand him easily. I have made him my personal
servant and he seems happy.
I am depressed tonight. Ordinarily, I would be exhilarated by
victory. I can't think what is wrong. Perhaps it is the memoir. I
have been dictating memories of my childhood at Macellum and
remembering those years always puts me in a bad mood.
Interesting note: One of the men of the Herculani reports that
at the height of the battle today he saw a huge man in strange
armour climbing one of the siege ladders. Later he saw this same
warrior in the thick of the fighting, but he could not identify
him nor could any of the others who saw him. They are all certain
that this warrior was the war god Ares himself. I must ask
Maximus to find out.

~2 May
It is afternoon. I am seated in the throne room of one of the
Great King's palaces, a fine building in the Roman style, more like
a country villa than a formal palace. Next to it is a fenced-in game
preserve. Here all sorts of wild animals are kept in a wooded
area . . . lions, boars and that truly terrible beast, the Persian
bear. The men have just broken down the fences and are now
hunting and killing the animals. I should have preferred for them
not to indulge in this slaughter but they must be kept in a good
mood, for we are close to Ctesiphon and the decisive battle.
Jovian has just come and gone. He brought me the skin of a lion
he killed, quite a large beast. "A match for the one on your bed."
I thanked Jovian warmly. Of the Galilean officers, he is the one I
trust the most, possibly because he is the stupidest. I gave him
some wine we had found in the cellar of the palace. He drank it so
greedily that I gave him two more flagons to take with him when
he left. He was most pleased and slightly drunk.
Priscus and I explored the palace together. It is both beautiful
and comfortable, a combination Roman emperors are not used to.
Apparently the servants fled shortly before we arrived, leaving a
dinner still warm in the kitchen. I was about to taste the contents
of one of the pots when the deaf-mute boy struck the ladle from
my hand. Then he tasted the mess, indicating that I should beware
of poison. I never think of such things. No, that is not true. I do
occasionally wonder if my evening bowl of polenta contains my
death, but I never hesitate to eat it. If that is to be my end, there

[4o91

inel



is nothing I can do about it. Fortunately, the dinner the Persians
left us was not poisoned.
I have set the secretaries to work in the throne room, a cool dim
room with latticed windows and a red lacquered throne on which
I now sit scribbling. The Great King lives far more luxuriously than
I. In one of the rooms we discovered hundreds of his silk robes...
Priscus insists that I give them to Maximus.
Tonight I have planned a large dinner for the military staff. I
have the beginnings of a plan for this last phase. Contrary to what
historians may think, wars are mostly improvisation. One usually
has an ultimate goal, but the means of attaining it cannot be deter-
mined in advance. That is why the favourite deity of generals-
and of Rome- is Fortune.

~6 May
Encamped for three days now at Coche. This is a village near
the site of the now vanished city of Seleucia, built by Alexander's
general. Farther on are the ruins of yet another city, destroyed in
the last century by the Emperor Carus. I thought it good policy
to show this to the men, demonstrating yet again how victorious
Roman arms have been in Persia.
I am still struck by the beauty of the countryside. Flowers
bloom; fruits ripen; there are many forests; much water. This is
an idyllic part of the world and I am sad that so many of its cities
must be put to the torch. But what men build they can rebuild.
I am with the Stoics, who regard all life as an infinite series of
growth and decline, each temporary terminus marked with the
clean impartiality of fire.
Near the city Carus destroyed, there is a small lake which
empties into the Tigris. Here we beheld a gruesome sight. Impaled
on stakes were the entire family of Mamersides, the officer who
surrendered Pirisabora to us. Thus cruelly does the Great King
punish those who disobey him. It was horrible to see not only
women but children put to death in this painful way.
While we were at the lake, Ormisda and his Persian court (he
now has over a hundred Persians in attendance on him) appeared,
with Nabdates, the governor of Maiozamalcha. Ormisda saluted
me formally. Then he said, "Augustus, I have passed sentence of
death on Nabdates."I asked him why.
Ormisda was grim. "Before the siege, we had a private under-

[4~o]



standing. He was to surrender the city to us. It was all arranged.
Then he broke his oath to me, the highest oath a Persian can swear.
Therefore, as Great King, I must put him to death, by fire." I was
impressed by Ormisda's manner. The closer we come to Ctesiphon,
the more imperial and Persian he becomes. So I gave my assent,
and the wretched man with his broken legs was dragged to the
stake. I left before the burning began. I dislike all executions
except those done with the sword.
I write these lines seated on a bench in what looks to be some
nobleman's park. It is a beautiful day; the sun is warm but not hot;
as far as the eye can see the countryside is green and blooming.
I am certain now of success. A messenger from Arintheus has just
come and gone. A fortress some twenty miles to the east will not
surrender.
I shall have to go there to determine whether or not there should
be a siege. Now another messenger approaches. I feel lazy and com-
fortable. I would like to sit in this park for ever. A warm south
wind suddenly brings me the scent of flowers: roses ?

Priscus: The second messenger probably brought him the bad news
that three of Dagalaif's cohorts were set upon by the Persians
at a town called $abatha. While the cohorts were thus engaged,
guerrillas sneaked up behind the army and slaughtered most of
the pack animals and their attendants. This was a severe blow
and Julian was furious with Dagalaif, who had left the beasts un-
guarded.
As for "the fortress some twenty miles to the east", which
would not surrender, Julian rode too close to its walls and was
nearly killed; his armour-bearer was wounded.
That night Julian ordered the siege engines to be put in place.
Unfortunately, the moon was nearly full and night was like day.
While the mantlets and turrets were being placed against the walls,
the Persians suddenly threw open their gates and charged our siege
troops with sword and javelin. They killed the better part of a
cohort, as well as the tribune in command.
How do I remember all this so clearly? Because I have just re-
ceived by post a rough draft of Ammianus Marcellinus's account
of Julian's Persian campaign. I wrote him months ago to ask him
if he had written anything about those days. In a covering letter,
he says that he kept "untidy notes in Persia, as usual". I assume
that his account is reliable. He is particularly good at describing
[4~]

Julian
osopli~y

re an.

:c

ú tcc

br
r~.eks



military action. He ought to be. As a professional soldier, he served
from Britain to Persia. I would send you his history, but since
it is in Latin you won't be able to read it and I am sure that you
wouldn't want to go to the expense of having it translated. By
the way, he says that he intends to write the history of Julian's
reign "just as it occurred". I suppose he means "deadpan", as
though Julian's reign took place a thousand years ago and were not
of any contemporary interest. I wish him luck.
Where was I ? The mauling of one of our cohorts by the Persians.
As soon as the Persians had done their bloody work, they escaped
inside the fortress. The next day Julian threw the full force of his
army against the fortress. After fierce fighting, it fell. Julian was
physically exhausted by this engagement. I am told that he led
the siege himself, fighting for thirteen hours without a break. I
don't know because our camp was pitched ten miles away. We of
the court rested comfortably while the soldiers fought.
What do I remember of that particular time ? Not much. I used
to play draughts with Anatolius. We would sit in front of his tent
and play on a portable table whose top was inlaid with squares
like a game board. Inside the tent, the clerks laboured incessantly.
The Emperor's correspondence is always kept up just as though
he were at the palace in Constantinople. No matter how desperate
the military situation, he must answer his mail.
Once when Anatolius and I were busy at draughts, Victor swept
through the camp at the head of a column of light cavalry. We
were nearly blinded by the dust. Anatolius was furious. "He does
that deliberately ! He knew we were sitting here !" He dabbed the
dust from his eyes with the edge of his cloak.
"He behaves rather as the Gauls are supposed to." I said this
to be challenging. Anatolius was usually close-mouthed about the
various factions at court.
"He is a good deal worse than any Gaul. More ambitious, too."
"For the purple ?"
"I can't say." Anatolius pursed his small mouth.
"What do you know 7"
"Augustus knows what I know." He said no more. I then won
four silver pieces from him, which he never paid me. That is the
sort of historian I am.

Julian Augustus                                      t9 May
We are again spending the night in one of the Great King's
[412]



palaces. This one is even handsomer and more luxurious than the
hunting lodge. It is surrounded by a large park of cypresses in a
countryside rich with vineyards and orchards. We are now at high
summer. What a fine season to be at war !
Victor reports that he was able to ride up to the walls of
Ctesiphon and no one stopped him. The gates were shut. The
guards on the walls made no move to fire at his men. According
to rumour, the Great King's army is still some miles to the south.
We must now be ready to move fast. Once the capital falls, the war
is over. Sapor will sue for peace. At the worst, he will risk every-
thing in one set battle, and the Persians are not noted for their
ability at conventional warfare. They are by nature marauders,
like the Saracens.
I gave dinner to Maximus, Priscus, Anatolius and Ormisda. The
dining room is particularly splendid with painted frescoes show-
ing Sapor hunting lions and boars, all very realistic, the sort of
painting I like, though I have not much taste for these things.
Even so, after two months of staring at the wall of a tent, one
enioys beauty.
I was surprised to find that Maximus is rather a connoisseur of
art. This morning he made a careful tour of the palace, recom-
mending to Anatolius what should he packed up and sent back
to Constantinople. "But have you noticed, Augustus, how the
paintings have only one subject? Killing. Animals in the chase.
Men at war. Beast against beast." I hadn't noticed this, but it was
quite true.
"That is because we regard killing as a necessary and sacred
part of life," said Ormisda.
"So do we," said Priscus. "Only we pretend to abhor it."
I chose not to correct him. I was-am- in much too good a
mood. I had bathed in the Great King's marble bath, and put on
one of his fine linen tunics. Apparently we are the same height. I
also found a strongbox containing a number of Sapor's personal
ornaments, among them a gold ram's head helmet with the
imperial ensign on it. I gave it to Ormisda.
"You may as well get used to wearing this," I said. He took it
from me. Then he dropped to his knees and kissed my hand. "The
House of Persia is grateful to you for all eternity."
"A generation of peace will do," I said dryly, wondering how
long it would be before the Great King Ormisda would prove
disloyal to Rome. Men are without gratitude, particularly kings.

[~I)]

'e



Ormisda does not know it, but I have decided to maintain an army
at Ctesiphon indefinitely.
While the philosophers amused themselves in debate, Ormisda
and I met the generals in an adjoining room. On the table was a
map of Ctesiphon which Ormisda had found in the Great King's
library. He believes it reliable. Victor, Nevitta, Dagalaif, and
Arintheus were present; also the chief engineer.
I came straight to the point. "There is no way for us to approach
Ctesiphon by water." I pointed to the map. "We are within a
triangle. Above us the King's River; behind us the Euphrates; in
front of us the Tigris. The Euphrates and Tigris Rivers meet here,
just south of Ctesiphon. But we can't sail from the Euphrates to
the Tigris because Ctesiphon commands the Tigris at the natural
juncture. Also, we would be downstream from the city. As you
know, we'd hoped to use the King's River, which ioins the Tigris
above Ctesiphon, but that section of the channel is dry. We are
left only one choice, to open up Trajan's canal." I pointed to a
dotted line on the chart. "When Traian was here, he dug a deep
channel from the Euphrates to the Tigris, following the bed of an
old Assyrian canal. The chief engineer has been studying this
canal for the past two days. He believes it can be reopened."
The chief happily listed the many difficulties involved in open-
ing the canal, the principal being a stone dam the Persians had built
across the channel to prevent invaders from using it as Trajan had.
But once the dam was breached, the chief engineer was positive
the canal would be navigable. After a brief discussion, I gave orders
for the dam to be broken.
The generals are in a good humour. Dagalaif and Victor are
particularly eager for a decisive battle. Ormisda is nervous: so
close to the fulfilment of all his dreams. I then dismissed everyone
except Nevitta, who asked to stay behind. Disturbing. Ch.

Priscus: What did they talk about? I think Nevitta must have
warned him that there was a plot against his life. "Disturbing"
suggests this. "Ch" means the Christians. Put the two together and
the meaning is plain.
On 24 May the channel was opened and the fleet crossed the
three miles from the Euphrates to the Tigris, anchoring half a mile
north of the city of Ctesiphon, which rose from the green valley of
the Tigris like a mountain of brick whose massive weight seemed
quite enough to cause the earth itself to bend. From our side of the

[4x4]




river we could see nothing of the city except the walls, which are
half again as high as those of Constantinople. At regular intervals,
semicircular towers support the thick masonry. Between the Tigris
and the city there is an open plain where, during the night of
25 May, the army of the Great King gathered.
Anatolius woke me at sunrise and together we left the camp and
went to the river bank, where half our army was already gathered
to observe the enemy. It was a splendid sight. The Persian army
numbered almost a hundred thousand men. Or so we now claim.
No one ever knows how large the enemy's army is, but we always
say that it is three times the size of ours. I think this one probably
was. Behind a wooden palisade on the steep river bank, the Persians
were drawn up in battle formation. A crossing seemed madness.
All around us soldiers talked worriedly among themselves. It
did not take a skilled veteran to realize how difficult it would
be to cross that river under fire and, even worse, to climb the
slippery river bank and assault the barricade.
I turned to Anatolius, who looked as worried as I felt. "We can't
cross here."
"Perhaps the Emperor means to move upstream. To cross a few
miles to the north then, circling round- you know, the classic
Constantine manoeuvre..." But in spite of his amateur's passion
for strategy, Anatolius mumbled into silence. For almost an hour
we stared gloomily at the Persians who stared right back. Then
one of Julian's heralds appeared, calling the men to assemble. The
Emperor would give the day's orders in personj.
"Nothing short of complete retreat will satisfy me," I said, while
Anatolius wondered what would happen if we simply ignored
Ctesiphon and turned south to the Persian Gulf "where the pearls
come from. Very rich country, too, from all accounts."
Julian appeared to the assembled troops. He was exuberant: his
eyes shone; his cloak for once was clean; his nose was only
slightly peeling from sunburn.
"Men, you have seen the army of Persia. More important, they
have seen us!" He paused for cheering. There was none. He cut
the silence short. Generals who allow an unfortunate pause to last
too long are apt to find the silence filled with that one rude phrase
which sets off mutiny.
But Julian had a surprise for us. "We are all tired today. It has
been a difficult week, clearing the channel, moving the fleet, setting
up camp. So today we shall have games. I propose horse racing,
[4~5]



with gold prizes for the winners. The betting will be your affair
since there are, I understand, a few Petulantes who know about
racing odds. I'm sure they'll help the rest of us. Have a good time."
He dismissed the men with a wave, like a schoolteacher giving his
pupils an unexpected holiday.
Everyone was stunned. If it had been any other general, the men
would have thought him mad. But this was Julian who had never
lost a battle. After the first gasp of surprise, the men delightedly
cheered their young leader who could, with such aplomb, order
games while the entire army of the Great King of Persia was drawn
up only a mile away. To a man they trusted Julian's luck and skill.
If he was this confident, who were they to worry ? So the army
did as he told them, and spent the day in races and games.
That night Julian ordered a surprise crossing of the Tigris. The
army was divided into three sections. When the first had secured
a footing on the far side, the second would embark, and so on.
ir~ greaer.~/s, al~p~ced t~/c l~?~a. t/icier poleted to t~e t~oer~d
Persian campfires which filled the horizon. "They have every
military advantage."
"Not every," said Julian ambiguously. "You'll see that I'm right.
Tell your men to board ship. I want everyone across by morning."
Four thousand men boarded five empty cargo ships, under
the reluctant command of Victor. I've never seen soldiers so
frightened. Just before they left, Victor quarrelled with Julian
on the river bank. None of us heard what was said, but Victor
departed in a rage and Julian was uncharacteristically quiet.
The ships disappeared into the darkness. Silence. An hour passed.
Julian paced up and down, pretending to be interested only in the
remaining ships which were to take the rest of the army across the
river once the Persian side had been secured. The army waited.
Suddenly flaming arrows pierced the black night. Victor's men
were landing. The Persians were attacking them. First one, then
two, then all five of the boats were set afire by Persian arrows. Far
off, we could hear Victor's men shouting to one another as they
clambered up the slippery river bank by the flickering light of
burning ships. On our side of the river, panic was beginning.
Julian saved the situation with one of his inspired lies. Just as we
were all positive the landing had failed and the men were lost,
Julian pointed to the five burning ships and shouted, "That's it!
The burning of the ships. That's the signal, Victor's signal. The
landing's a success! To the boats! To the boats!"

[416]



I don't know how he did it, but he made the men believe him.
He raced up the down the river bank, shouting, pushing, coaxing
the men on to the landing craft. Then he himself leapt into the
first boat just as it was about to leave the shore. The men were
now as excited as he. They crowded on to the remaining boats.
Some even floated across the river on their shields. Convinced of
total disaster, I watched the Roman army disappear on to the black
river.
By dawn, to my amazement, we held the river bank.
The next day Maximus and I, along with the priests and other
timid folk, sat comfortably at the river's edge and watched the
Battle of Ctesiphon as though we were at the theatre. When we
complained of the heat, umbrellas were brought us, and wine.
Never have philosophers watched in such comfort two empires
collide so fatefully.
I sat between Maximus and the Etruscan Mastara. Anatolius was
not with us, for he had bravely chosen to fight beside Julian that
day, even though court marshals are not expected to be warriors.
We teased him a good deal as he got ready for battle, his tiny
mouth a firm military circle in his hopelessly soft face.
"Many years with the cavalry," he said casually. His round
stomach jiggled beneath ill-fitting armour as he motioned imperi-
ously for the groom to bring him his horse. With a flourish,
Anatolius mounted the horse and fell off the other side. I'm afraid
we clerks laughed at our impetuous brother. But Anatolius had his
way; he followed his Emperor into battle.
At first we saw everything plain. The Persians were spread out
in an arc between the walls of Ctesiphon and the river. Cavalry
first; then infantry; then against the wall, like a range of mud hills,
a hundred elephants each with an iron tower on its back, contain-
ing archers.
The Persian cavalry wear an extraordinary form of armour
which consists of hundreds of small iron plates sewn together in
such a way that not only is the soldier completely covered by
armour but he is able to move easily, the iron fitting the contours
of his body like cloth. Their horses are protected by leather
blankets. In the hands of a capable general, the Persian cavalry is
a remarkable weapon. Fortunately for us, there were at this time
no Persian generals of any distinction. Also, the Persian army is
not a permanent institution like ours but a haphazard collection of
conscripts, mercenaries, noblemen and slaves. At times of national

[4~7]



crisis every able-bodied man is impressed into service, hardly the
best of systems.
Behind the cavalry, the Persian infantry advanced in close order,
protected by oblong wicker shields covered with rawhide. Among
the elephants at the rear was the Grand Vizier, while on the walls
of Ctesiphon the Great King and his court observed the battle in
much the same way we philosophers watched it in our folding
chairs on the river bank. We were too far away to recognize Sapor,
though Maximus, as usual, claimed he saw him quite clearly.
"I am extraordinarily far-sighted, you know. Sapor is to the left
of that tower by the gate. You see the blue canopy ? Well, he is
just under it, wearing scarlet. Those must be his sons with him.
They look quite young . . ." And on he babbled. Actually, all any
of us could see was a faint blur of colour on the battlements.
But Julian was most visible, riding restlessly along the front line
as our army advanced. He was easily identified not only by his
white horse and purple cloak but by the dragon standard which
always accompanied him.
Our trumpets sounded the advance. The infantry then began its
curious stylized march, based on that of ancient $parta's artfly:
two short steps, a pause, two short steps, a pause, all in perfect
unison while the drums beat the tattoo. It is ominous both to hear
and to see. Even Maximus was silent as the Roman army advanced.
Then with a shout, our skirmishers in the front rank threw their
javelins into the Persian cavalry. And the two armies vanished. For
an instant I almost believed in Maximus's magic. Where a hundred
and thirty thousand men had been perfectly visible to us in the
bright sun, there was now nothing but an oppressive cloud of
dust. We could see nothing. But from the heart of the cloud we
heard trumpets, drums, war cries, metal striking metal, the hiss of
arrows.

The battle began at sunrise and continued until sundown. After
an hour or two of watching dust, the Etruscans grew bored, and
withdrew "to pray for victory". Instead, they settled down in
a near-by grove of date palms for a drinking party. They were
prodigious drinkers. One of my few happy memories of the Persian
campaign was the night when all five Etruscans were dead drunk
during an important religious ceremony, It was a splendid debacle.
They kept dropping sacred vessels and books, while Mastara
solemnly assured the furious Julian that "the god has possessed us".
Maximus and I watched the wall of dust all day. The only sign

[~t~8]



we had of how the battle was going was the position of the dust
cloud as, hour by hour, it shifted closer to the walls of Ctesiphon.
The Persians were giving ground.
"On ~5 June we shall return to Tarsus," said Maximus suddenly;
he had been making signs in the dust at our feet with his
magician's staff.
"In three weeks ?"
"Three weeks ? Is that three weeks ?" He looked at me blankly.
"Why so it is! Amazing to think we shall conquer Persia in such
a short time. Alexander hardly did as well. Perhaps I've made a
mistake." He studied the dust at his feet. I wanted to break his
stick over his foolish head.
"No. The calculation is correct. ~5 June. Plain as day. We must
tell Julian. He'll be so pleased." He looked vaguely towards the
battlefield.
"How do you know that the Emperor . . ." I emphasized the
title. No one but Maximus ever referred to Julian by name. "... is
still alive ?"
"He has to be. i~ June. I just showed you. Look, in the Sun's
Fourth House . . ."
"And how do you know we shall win this battle ?"
"Sometimes you amaze me, Priscus. It is all so plain. Sapor is
about to fall, and we shall go home victorious. It is pre-ordained.
And frankly I look forward to a return to private life. I'm here
only because Julian insisted . . ."
While Maximus chattered, I stared at the walls of Ctesiphon,
waiting for the battle's end. Shortly before sunset, a soft breeze
thinned the cloud of dust until we were again able to see the two
armies, now in a hopeless tangle at the city's gate. The elephants
were running amok, trunks curled, tusks flashing. I am told the
Persians use them to intimidate their own men quite as much as
the enemy's. Persians as well as Romans were trampled by those
hideous beasts.
As the red sun set, the gates of the city opened to receive the
Persian army. Our men pursued them. In a matter of seconds, the
Persian army ceased to be an army and became a mob of frightened
men, all trying to get within the gates. Then it was dark.

]ulian Augustus                                    27 May
I cannot sleep. Within my tent, I walk up and down. I am ex-
hausted from twelve hours of fighting- but too excited to sleep,




to do anything. I can barely write these lines. My hand shakes
with tension.
I have defeated the Great King's army! Twenty-five hundred
Persians dead, and only seventy-five Romans! We could have taken
Ctesiphon. Our infantry could have entered when the Persians
did but Victor stopped them. He was afraid they might be out-
numbered inside a strange city. I am not sure that he was right.
Had I been at the gate, I would have ordered the men to go through.
We should have taken the chance. The Persian army was in flight.
That was our opportunity. But Victor is cautious. He was also
wounded- an arrow in the right shoulder, not serious. Now we
shall have to lay siege to the city. A long business.
I saw the Great King today, and he saw me. Sapor was seated
on the wall, beneath a canopy. I was only a few yards away.
Though nearly seventy, Sapor looks much younger. He is lean and
black-bearded (Ormisda says that his hair is dyed: Sapor is vain
about his appearance, also his potency . . . no one knows how
many children he has). Sapor wore a gold crown with a scarlet
plume. As a gesture of disdain, he wore court dress! He looked
like a peacock, glaring down at me.
I waved my sword arm. "Come down!" I shouted, but in that
tumult I doubt if he heard me. But he saw me and he knew who
I was. The Great King saw the Emperor of Rome at the gate to
his city! The courtiers around him looked terrified. No one made
a move. Then I was distracted by the battle around me. The next
time I looked at the wall, Sapor was gone.
Before we returned to camp, we buried our dead an~l stripped
the Persian corpses. Many nobles were killed and their armour is
much prized by us. Unfortunately, none of the Gauls and



to do anything. I can barely write these lines. My hand shakes
with tension.
I have defeated the Great King's army! Twenty-five hundred
Persians dead, and only seventy-five Romans! We could have taken
Ctesiphon. Our infantry could have entered when the Persians
did but Victor stopped them. He was afraid they might be out-
numbered inside a strange city. I am not sure that he was right.
Had I been at the gate, I would have ordered the men to go through.
We should have taken the chance. The Persian army was in flight.
That was our opportunity. But Victor is cautious. He was also
wounded- an arrow in the right shoulder, not serious. Now we
shall have to lay siege to the city. A long business.
I saw the Great King today, and he saw me. Sapor was seated
on the wall, beneath a canopy. I was only a few yards away.
Though nearly seventy, Sapor looks much younger. He is lean and
black-bearded (Ormisda says that his hair is dyed: Sapor is vain
about his appearance, also his potency . . . no one knows how
many children he has). Sapor wore a gold crown with a scarlet
plume. As a gesture of disdain, he wore court dress! He looked
like a peacock, glaring down at me.
I waved my sword arm. "Come down!" I shouted, but in that
tumult I doubt if he heard me. But he saw me and he knew who
I was. The Great King saw the Emperor of Rome at the gate to
his city! The courtiers around him looked terrified. No one made
a move. Then I was distracted by the battle around me. The next
time I looked at the wall, Sapor was gone.
Before we returned to camp, we buried our dead antl stripped
the Persian corpses. Many nobles were killed and their amour is
much prized by us. Unfortunately, none of the Gauls and
Germans can wear Persian armour. It is too small for them.
So the best armour in the world goes to our worst soldiers, the
Asiatics !
We had a victory dinner in my tent. The generals got drunk.
But I could eat and drink nothing. I am too tense. Maximus says
the war will be over in three weeks. Soldiers have been serenading
me all night. Many of them are drunk but I do not scold them. I
go outside and embrace them and call them by name, telling them
what fine fellows they are, and they tell me the same thing. To-
morrow I give out war crowns to those who showed unusual
valour. I shall also sacrifice to the war god Ares.
Why didn't Victor go into the city ?
[420]



Priscus: The next day was marred only by the sacrifice. After the
men had been given their decorations, Julian tried to sacrifice a
bull to Ares on a newly built altar. But for one reason or another,
nine bulls were found wanting by the Etruscans. The tenth bull,
acceptable, bolted at the last minute. When it was finally caught
and sacrificed, the liver indicated disaster. To everyone's amaze-
ment, Julian threw down the sacrificial knife and shouted to the
sky, "Never again will I sacrifice to you!" Maximus looked quite
alarmed and even I was taken aback. Flushed and sweating from
the hot sun, Julian disappeared into his tent. I can only attribute
his strange action to the fact that he had not slept in two
days.
The same day Anatolius took me on a tour of the battlefield. He
was very soldierly. "Here the Herculani made a flanking move-
ment to allow for the light-armed cohorts of Petulantes to break
through . . ." That sort of thing. Anatolius was so pleased with
his own military expertise that I did not have the heart to laugh
at him as he led me over the dusty ground, still littered with Persian
dead. I noticed one interesting phenomenon. Persians do not
putrefy in the hot sun the way Europeans do. After two days of
this climate, a dead European is in an advanced state of decay.
But not the Persians. They simply dry up and become hard as
leather. I once asked Oribasius about this and he said it was due
to diet. According to him, we drink too much wine and eat too
much grain while the Persians eat sparingly, preferring dates and
lentils to our rich fare. Yet I have observed the dead bodies of
lean Gauls- yes, there are some- and though their owners lived
austere lives, they decayed as swiftly as their corpulent brothers. It
is very puzzling.
The Persians had been stripped of their armour and valuables,
except for one who still wore a gold ring. I decided to take it as
a souvenir. Even now I can remember the feel of that cold, hard
hand as, wifh great effort, I bent straight the fingers which had
been drawn into a brown fist. I stared at the dead man's face. He
was young; he wore no beard. I looked at him. He looked at
me, eyes glazed as though with fever. Flies buzzed about his
head.
"Spoils of war," said Anatolius comfortably.
"Spoils of war," I said to the dead Persian, letting him drop back
on the ground with a thump. He seemed unconvinced. The flies
settled on his face. I wore the ring until a few months ago when
[42I]



I lost it at the baths. I have become thin lately and the ring fell off
in the hot room. Naturally, the attendants never return anything
they find.
Two days later, on 29 May, Julian moved the army to Abuzatha,
a Persian fort on the Tigris three miles from Ctesiphon. Here we
made camp. For several days none of Julian's friends saw him. He
was closeted with his military staff. There was disagreement among
the generals. Some wanted to lay siege to Ctesiphon. Others pre-
ferred to isolate the city and continue the conquest of Persia. A
few advised returning to Roman territory. None of us knew what
Julian's plan was or even if he had a plan. Nor did any of us know
that while we were in camp, he had received a secret embassy
from Sapor. I confess that even if I had known, I would not have
cared much. Like half the camp, I was ill with dysentery.

]ulian Augustus                                      3ř Ma3,
The Persian envoys have just left. Ormisda is with them. I sit
alone in my tent. Outside, Callistus is singing a mournful song. It
is very hot. I am waiting for Maximus. If I withdraw from Persia,
the Great King has promised to cede me all of Mesopotamia north
of Anatha; also, at his own expense, he will rebuild our city of
Amida, and pay in gold or kind whatever we ask to defray the
cost of this war. Persia is defeated.
The ambassadors came to me secretly. They wanted it that way.
So did I. They were brought to me as though they were officers
taken captive in a Saracen raid. No one except Ormisda and myself
knows that this was an embassy. The chief ambassador is a brother
of the Grand Vizier. He maintained a perfect dignity while pro-
posing a treaty which, if I accept it, will mean that I have gained
more of the East for Rome than any general since Pompey. Realiz-
ing this, the ambassador felt impelled to indulge himself in Persian
rhetoric. "Never forget, Augustus, that our army is more numerous
than the desert's sand. One word from the Great King and you and
all your host are lost. But Sapor is merciful."
"Sapor is frightened," said Ormisda, to my irritation. I prefer
to seem indifferent while envoys talk, to give them no clue as to
what I intend to do. But Ormisda has been unusually tense the
last few days. Despite his age, he fought like a youth at Ctesiphon.
Now he sees the crown of Persia almost in his hands. He is terrified
it will slip away. I am sympathetic. Yet my policy is not necessarily
his policy.

[422]




Ormisda taunted the ambassadors. "I know what happens in the
palace at Ctesiphon. I know what is whispered in the long halls,
behind the ivory doors. Nothing that happens among you is kept
from me."
This was not entirely bluff. Ormisda's spies are indeed well
placed at the Persian court and he learns astonishing things. Also,
as we conquer more and more of Persia, there is a tendency among
the nervous courtiers to shift from the old king to what may be
the new. But the ambassador was not one of those whom Ormisda
could win.
"There are traitors in every palace, Prefect." He used Ormisda's
Roman title. Then he turned to me. "And in every army, Augustus."
I did not acknowledge this dangerous truth. "But the Great King
is merciful. He loves peace . . ."
Ormisda laughed theatrically. "Sapor wears rags, taken from a
beggar. His beard and hair are full of ashes. He dines off the floor
like an animal. He weeps, knowing his day is ended." Ormisda was
not exaggerating. During the last few hours we have had several
harrowing descriptions of Sapor's grief at my victory. He has
every reason to be in mourning. Few monarchs have been so
thoroughly humiliated.
The ambassador read me the draft of the treaty. I thanked him.
Then I told Ormisda to take the embassy to Anatolius's tent, which
is next to mine. They will wait there until I have prepared an
answer. Ormisda wanted to stay behind and talk to me but I made
him go. He is not Great King yet.
I now sit on the bed. The treaty is before me: two scrolls, one
in Greek, one in Persian. I have placed them side by side on the
lion skin. What to do ? If I accept Sapor's terms, it will be a triumph
for me. If I stay, I am not entirely certain that a siege of Ctesiphon
would be successful. It will certainly take a long time; perhaps a
year, and I cannot be away from Constantinople that long. Today
the Persian army is no threat, but who knows what sort of army
Sapor might put in the field next week, next month ?
Everything depends, finally, on Procopius. He is in the north,
at Bezabde in Corduene. Or so I hear. There has been no direct
word from him.

Maximus was brilliant just now. As always, he went straight to
the heart of things.
[4231

lC and

.Juli;
fi'i,



"This treaty is a triumph; a province gained, peace assured for
at least . . ."
"... a decade."
"Perhaps longer. Amida rebuilt. A fortune in gold. Few emperors
have accomplished so much. But then . . ." He looked at me
thoughtfully. "Was it just for this we have come so far, to gain
half a province ? or to conquer half a world ?"
He paused. I waited. Like a true philosopher, he then turned the
matter round, first to one side, then to another. "There is no deny-
ing this is an excellent treaty, better than anyone would have
dreamed . . . except us, who know what no one else knows.
Cybele herself promised you victory. You are Alexander, born
again, set on earth to conquer Asia. You have no choice."
Maximus is right. The gods have not brought me this far simply
to have me turn back as though I were some Saracen chief raid-
ing the border. I shall reject Sapor's treaty and begin the siege of
Ctesiphon. Once Procopius arrives, I shall be free to order a march
straight into the morning sun. Yes, to the house of Helios himself,
the father from whom I came and to whom I must return, in glory.

?riscus: Have you ever read such nonsense ? If only I had known !
But none of us knew what Maximus was up to, even though he was
for ever dropping hints about "our plans". But since those plans
were never revealed, we were all equally in the dark. When the
rumour that Sapor had sued for peace swept the camp, Julian
firmly denied that there had been an embassy, and we believed
him. I am certain that if the generals had known the terms of the
treaty, they would have forced Julian to accept. But Julian and
Maximus lied, as did Ormisda, who was not about to end his last
hope of reigning in Persia. All three wanted the war to continue.
From the moment of this decision, I trace the rapid decline of
Julian. Nothing went right again. In retrospect his actions are those
of a madman. But since he seemed so entirely normal at the time,
none of us seriously questioned his orders or thought anything he
did unusual. We merely assumed that he had information we did
not. Also, up until the last day of May, everything he had attempted
had proven successful. Even so, the generals were becoming critical.
And treason was in the air.

[4~4]



XXII

Julian Augustus                                   ~ May
Midnight. The deaf-mute sits cross-legged at my feet, playing
a Persian instrument much like a lute. The melody is unfamiliar
but pleasing. Callistus is arranging my armour on the stand beside
the bed. Ormisda has just left. He is pleased at my decision, but
I am somewhat uneasy. For the first time I find myself in complete
disagreement with my officers. What is worse, I cannot tell them
why I know that the course I have embarked upon is the right one.
At this evening's staff meeting, Victor challenged me openly.
"We have not the force, Augustus, to attempt a long siege. Nor
the supplies. We also have many wounded." He touched his own
bandaged shoulder.
"And no hope of reinforcements." Arintheus automatically
follows Victor's lead.
"There is the army of Procopius and Sebastian," said Ormisda.
He sat on my right at the conference table, on which our only map
of this part of Persia was unrolled. 5o far, the map has proved
completely unreliable.
"Procopius!" Nevitta said the name contemptuously, concen-
trating in that one word a lifelong contempt for all things Greek.
"We'll never see him here. Never !"
"I've sent Procopius orders . . ." I began.
"But why hasn't he obeyed you ?" Victor led the attack. "Why
is he still in Corduene ?"
"Yes, why ? One is never certain whether Dagalaif is naive or
subtle.
"Because he is a traitor," said Nevitta, the Frankish accent grow-
ing harsh and guttural, the words difficult to understand. "Because
he and that Christian king of Armenia, your friend," he turned
malevolently on Ormisda- "want us all dead, so that Procopius
can be the next Christian emperor."
There was a shocked silence at this. I broke it, mildly. "We can't
be sure that that is the reason."
"You can't, Emperor, but I can. I know these Asiatics. I never
trusted one in my life." He looked straight at Victor who returned
the hard gaze evenl7.
[42S]



I laughed. "I hope you trust me, Nevitta. I'm Asiatic."
"You're Thracian, Emperor, which is almost as good as being
a Frank or a Gaul. Besides, you're not a Christian, or so I've
heard."
Everyone laughed; the tension was relieved. Then Victor ex-
pressed the hope that we obtain as good a treaty as possible from
Sapor. Ormisda and I exchanged a quick glance. I am sure that
Victor knows nothing. I am also glad we kept the embassy a secret,
especially now that I know Nevitta and Dagalaif are eager to go
home. Except for me, no one believes Procopius will join us. I am
certain that he will. If he does not . . .
Salutius proposed a compromise. "We should all assume that
Procopius intends to obey his Emperor. Having recently executed a
man whom I'd falsely accused of not doing his duty, I fayour
giving Procopius every opportunity to prove himself loyal. After
all, we don't know what difficulties he may have encountered.
He may be ill, or dead. So I suggest that the Augustus wait
at least a week before beginning the siege, or making any other
plans."
This compromise was accepted. Like most compromises it solves
nothing while prolonging - perhaps dangerously - the time of in-
decision. But I said nothing beyond agreeing to delay the siege. I
wanted to appear reasonable because I was about to propose what
I knew would be a most unpopular action.
"Our fleet requires twenty thousand men to man and guard it.
As long as we keep close to the river, the men can do both. But if
we enter the interior-either to go home or to pursue the Great
King's army - those men must go with us. If they go with us, the
Persians will seize our ships. To prevent that, we must burn the
fleet."
They were stunned. Nevitta was the first to speak. He wanted to
know how I expected to return to our own country without ships.
I explained that whether we returned by way of the Euphrates or
by way of the Tigris, we would have to go upstream, a slow and
laborious business. The fleet would be an encumbrance. This point
was conceded to me; even so, I was opposed by the entire staff
except Ormisda, who realized that only by burning the fleet will
I be able toget the legions to follow me into the interior.
Yes, I am determined now to secure all of the provinces of Persia
as far as the border of India, a thousand miles to the east. Alexander
did as much. I am convinced that I can do it. Sapor's army is no

[426]



match for ours. With the harvest at hand, we shall not have to
worry about supplies. Only one thing holds me back: Procopius.
If he were here, I could set out confident that with Ormisda's help
Ctesiphon would fall and there would be no enemy at my back.
But I cannot leave until I know where Procopius is. Meanwhile, I
must burn the fleet.
Patiently, I answered the arguments of the generals. I convinced
none but all acquiesced. As they were leaving my tent, Salutius
took me to one side. I could feel the unpleasant heat of his breath
on my skin as he whispered close to my ear the single word
"Mutiny".
"Who ?"
Though the last of the generals had left the tent, Salutius con-
tinued to whisper. "The Christians.""Victor ?"
"I don't know. Perhaps. My reports are vague. The men are sing-
ing a song that they will soon be home but you will not be."
"That is treason."
"The way the words run, the thing sounds innocent enough.
Whoever wrote it was clever,""Who sing it ? Gallleans ?"
Salutius nodded. "The Zianni and the Herculani. Only a few are
involved so far. But if you burn the fleet . . ."
"Salutius, believe in me." I took his hand. "I know things that
others don't."
"As you command, Lord." Salutius bowed and left me.
I have spent this night alone except for the deaf-mute and
Callistus. I pray. I study Alexander's campaign in Persia. I examine
maps and read histories. Helios willing, I shall spend the winter on
the border of India. No Roman emperor has ever annexed so great
a territory to our world.

]ulian Augustus                                      ~ ]une
The fleet is burned. Twelve ships were spared, suitable for
making bridges. We shall transport them on wagons. I have just
sent Arintheus with the light-armed infantry to wipe out the
remnants of the Persian army in hiding near by. I have also ordered
him to fire the surrounding fields and slaughter the cattle. Once we
are gone it will take the inhabitaris of Ctesiphon many months to
get sufficient food. That will give us time. No word from
Procopius.
[~.27~

Jul

ield~)~ n



Priscus: On a hot and windy morning, the fleet was set afire. Flames
darted swiftly from ship to ship until the brown Tigris itself
seemed to burn. As the sun's heat increased, all objects were
distorted by heatwaves. Creation seemed to be ending exactly as
Stoics teach, in a vast, cleansing, terminal fire.
I watched the burning with Anatolius. For once I almost believed
in Nemesis. The men, too, sensed that this time their Emperor had
reached too far, plunging himself and them into the sun's fierce
maw. Ordinarily, any order Julian gave was promptly obeyed, and
the more puzzling it was the more certain were the men of his
cleverness. But that day he was forced to fire the first ship himself.
No one would do it for him. I saw fear in the faces of the men as
Julian offered the fleet to Helios.
"Of course we are not generals," said Anatolius tentatively,
knowing what was in my mind. "The Emperor is a master of
war."
"He can still make a mistake." Neither of us could take our eyes
off the fire. What is there in the burning of man-made things which
so thrills us ? It is like Homer's image of the two rivers in Hades:
one of creati~on, the other of destruction, for ever held in uneasy
balance. Men have always enjoyed destroying quite as much as
building, which explains the popularity of war.
We were still gaping at the fiery river when a group of officers
rode past us. One of them was Valentinian, his face scarlet with
heat and rage. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" he snarled. Anatolius
and I exchanged nervous glances. Was there to be a mutiny of
officers ? But there was none, despite the grumbling of the tribunes.
Incidentally, I have never forgotten that brief glimpse I had of
Valentinian, his face swollen with the same rage that was to kill
him years later when he died of a stroke while bellowing at a
German embassy.
By nightfall, the fleet was gone. In the distance one could see the
Persians gathered on the walls of Ctesiphon to watch this extra-
ordinary sight. No one will ever know what they made of it. The
Roman Emperor burning the Roman fleet must have seemed to
them perfectly incomprehensible. I could hardly believe it my-
self.

Julian Augustus                                      3 June
We have broken camp and are moving south-east, into the
interior. The countryside is rich; there is plenty of water. The men

[~28]



are less apprehensive than they were. They see now that we do not
need the river to survive.

Julian Augustus                                                         4 .June
All goes well. Nevitta: on guard. Victor. Ch. Close? How? Days
grow hotter. May begin night marches.

Priscus: Nevitta again warned Julian of a Christian plot. This time
Victor was directly involved. I know. I rode beside Julian that
same afternoon. He spoke frankly of what Nevitta had told him.
   "But if they kill me, who will take my place ? There's no one
except $alutius and he is hardly a friend to them."   "There is Victor."
Julian smiled coldly. "He would be butchered by the Gauls."
Then he frowned. "Nevitta says they have put someone close to me
to . . . to do their work. Is it you ?" He turned on me and I saw
that though his voice was light and playful his face was not. He
stared at me with sun-dazzled eyes. Like all of us, his face was
burned dark and his eyes were red from sand and sun, the lids
suppurating. He had lost weight and one could see the working of
the cordlike muscles of his forearms as he grasped the reins. He
was a boy no longer, nor even young.
   "No, not I." I tried but could not think of a joke to make
"You'd make a very poor emperor." He was his old self again.
We rode on. Before and behind us, the army wound through bright
country, rich with coming harvest.
   Salutius joined us, wearing a headcloth.
"Look at that ! A classic Roman consul !" Julian teased him. But
Salutius for all his intelligence had no humour. He explained to
us at solemn length why he could not wear a helmet in the sun
because the heat made his forehead break out in a rash. Then he
handed Julian a letter. "From the senate at Constantinople. To
congratulate you on your victory."
Julian sighed. "Too soon," he said, giving the letter back. I recall
how the sun shone on the back of his hand and the blond hairs
glittered against sun-darkened skin. I also noticed what large nails
he had inow that he'd ceased biting them). Curious the clarity with
which one remembers the shape of a hand glimpsed years ago,
while so many things of importance are lost.

Julian Augustus                                                         5 June
  Midnight: Fire. Trenches.



?riscus: That night the Persians set fire to the harvest. l~or miles
around fields, vineyards, orchards, villages... everything caul~ht
fire, and night was like day. Although Julian ordered protective
trenches dug around the camp, a number of our tents burned, as
well as several wagons.
For three days and three nights the fire continued. Whenever I
think of those weeks in Persia, I see fire in my mind, smell smoke,
feel the terrible heat of sun blazing while fire burns. Luckily, there
were springs in the camp and we had sufficient water. We also had
food for perhaps a week. But after that, famine. As far as the eye
could see, there was black desert. Nothing green survived.
I now shared a tent with Anatolius. This meant that I was more
than usually involved in the business of the court. Ordinarily I kept
out of such things, for I have always been bored by politics, but
now I was very interested in what was going on. We all were. Our
lives were at stake. It seemed that everyone had a plan to save us,
except the Emperor.
The army was now almost evenly divided between Julian and
Victor, between the Europeans and the Asiatics, between the
Hellenists and the Christians, Julian of course was strongest be-
cause his adherents were, quite simply, the best soldiers. Yet as
each day passed in that burnt-out wilderness, the party of Victor
became all the louder and more demanding, insisting that the
Emperor act. But Julian gave absolutely no hint of what he in-
tended to do. In fact, without this journal we might never have
known what was in his mincl.

Julian Augustus                                       6 June
Persian cavalry raided our supply depot just before dawn.
Several of them killed. No casualties for us. We must expect more
of this.
At noon I prayed to Helios. I sacrificed a white bull. The augury
was not decisive. What to do ?
A sharp encounter with Victor at this afternoon's staff meeting.
My quarters are stifling. None of us wore armour. The generals
were arranged about me on stools. At my feet sat the deaf-mute;
he watches my every move with the alert, loving eyes of a pet dog.
I have only to think I am thirsty for him to read it in my face and
bring me water.
No sooner had I greeted the generals than Victor took the initia-
tive. "Augustus, we must go back the way we came, through

[430]



Assyria." Arintheus promptly agreed with him. The others waited
to see what I would say.
"That is always a possibility. Of course. Always." I assumed the
Mardonius manner: maddeningly reasonable yet perfectly evasive.
"But perhaps, Count, you will tell us, first, why you believe
we must go back now and, second, why you prefer that
route."
Victor looked more than ever like the village bully trying to
control himself in the presence of the schoolmaster. "First, as the
Augustus knows, we shall soon be short of food. My scouts report
that for twenty miles to south and east there are only ashes. To
the north there is desert. That leaves us the west, where we came
from."
"Have you forgotten that we ourselves burned the fields around
Ctesiphon ?"
"Yes, we made that mistake, but . . ."
Nevitta made a threatening noise, deep in his throat, like a bull
preparing for attack. One may not accuse the Emperor of making
mistakes. But I motioned for Nevitta to keep silent. I tried to sound
amiable. "But since this 'mistake' was made, what is the point of
going from one devastated region to another ?"
"Because, Augustus, there are still some regions which we did
not burn. We can live off the country. We can also use those forts
we captured . . ."
... and burned ? No, Count, those forts are of no use to us and
you know it. So I ask you again: Why do you want to go back the
way we came ?"
"Because we know that country. We can live off it, somehow.
The men will be reassured."
"May I speak, Lord ?" Ormisda has ceased to be Great King and
is once more Greek courtier, a bad sign. "The army cannot return
up the Euphrates because there is no longer a fleet. Nor have we
the means to make bridges."
"We can use the ships that were saved," said Victor.
This time Salutius answered him. "Twelve smaIl ships are not
enough to cross the Tigris. Like it or not, we are now confined to
this side of the river. If we set out for home it must be by way of
Corduene."
"Can't we get ships from the Persians?" asked Dagalaif suddenly.
"There must be hundreds in the river ports."
"They'll burn them first," said Ormisda.



"I have been making inquiries," Salutius began, sounding as if
he were sitting comfortably in his praetorian prefect's chair at
Constantinople, surrounded by notaries, instead of sweating in an
airless tent with a cloth wrapped about his sunburned head. "And
it appears that what ships the Persians have are well out of range.
Our only hope would be to build new ones, but of course we lack
the materials."
Ormisda finished the matter. "Even if we could cross the Tigris,
we would have the same difficulties returning north we have had
here. Sapor means to starve us out. He will burn all Persia if he has
to. Also, the rains have now begun in Mesopotamia. The winter ice
in the mountains has melted. The road that brought us to Ctesiphon
is a fever-swamp, swarming with insects. But of course we shall
go wherever the Augustus bids."
"So shall we all," said Victor, "but what is his plan ?" I looked
into the bright eyes of my enemy and saw that he means to kill
me. I have known it from the start.
I answered quietly. "Augustus means to consider every possi-
bility before he comes to a decision. He also reminds the council
that we have yet to hear from Procopius. There are rumours that
he is even now on his way to us here. If he arrives, we shall lay
siege to Ctesiphon."
"Using what for food ?" Victor challenged me.
"Procopius will bring supplies. Also, to get here, he will have to
open up a line of communications from our province of Corduene.
That's only three hundred miles away. We don't need to worry
about supplies if Procopius comes."
"But if he does not ?" Victor leaned forward, a hunting dog who
has got the quafry's scent.
"Then we are where we are now. It seems agreed that we cannot
return the way we came."
"Because the fleet was burned."
This was too much. I turned on Victor. "Count, you will not
speak again until I give you leave." As if struck, Victor blinked and
sat back.
I continued. "We can always take our chances in the desert to
the north. But it will be a hard march to Corduene." I could see
that Ormisda wanted to speak. I nodded.
"The Augustus should know that there are no maps of that
territory. We shall have to rely on guides. They may not be
reliable."

['t52]




"Can't we follow the course of the Tigris ?" Dagalaif fanned
himself with the frond of a date palm.
"Not easily," said Ormisda. "There are many strong for-
tresses . . ."
"And we shall be a retreating army, not a conquering one. We
would be unable to lay siege to the cities." I let this sink in. Until
now no one has mentioned the possibility of our defeat. Mter all,
we have broken the Great King's army; half Persia is ours. Yet now
we must talk of retreat because we have been burned out by
Persian zealots. It is tragedy. I should have anticipated it. But I did
not. The fault is mine. It is hard to believe that without the loss of
a single battle one can so swiftly cease to be a conqueror and be-
come the chieftain of a band of frightened men who want only to
go home as fast as possible. Is this the revenge of Ares for what I
said to him during the sacrifice at Ctesiphon ?
Arintheus took my challenge. "We're not retreating, Augustus.
How could we be ? Why, old 5apor will make a treaty with you
tomorrow, giving you anything you want if only we go home."
News of the Persian embassy has been in the air for a week
Nothing is secret for long in an army. I suspect the Persians them-
selves of spreading the rumour, to create discord: why is your
Emperor driving you so hard when we are willing to give you gold
and territory and a safe passage home ? The Persians are expert at
this sort of thing.
"Victor seems to feel that we have been defeated," I said. "I
don't. I think we must wait a few days longer for Procopius. If he
does not come, we shall consider whether to go north to Corduene
or keep on south to the Persian Gulf." I said this casually. It was
the first time I have suggested such a thing to the generals. They
were astonished.
"The Persian Gulf!" Victor momentarily forgot my ban of
silence. He quickly muttered an apology.
Salutius spoke for what, I am afraid, is the majority. "It is too
far, Augustus. We are only three hundred miles from Roman terri-
tory and it seems like three thousand miles. If we continue any
deeper into Persia, we'll be swallowed up."
"The men won't go." Nevitta was abrupt. "They're already
frightened. Order them to go south and you'll have a first-class
mutiny on your hands."
"But the cities of the Gulf are rich and unprotected . . ."
"They won't go, General. Not now. But even if they would,
[433]



what's to keep the Persians from burning everything in our path ?
They're crazy enough to. We'd starve to death before we ever saw
the Gulf."
So I have abandoned this dream. For now, I dismissed the
council.
I sit on my cot, writing this on my knees. Callistus is preparing
the sacrificial robes. The deaf-mute plays the lute. In a few minutes
Maximus joins me. In an hour I pray first to Zeus, then to the
Great Mother. Where have I failed ? Is this the revenge of Ares ?

Julian Augustus                                                          7 June
The omens are bad. The auguries inconclusive. They advise
against returning home by way of Assyria, they also advise against
going north to Corduene. One indicated that I should go south to
the Gulf ! But the troops would not obey. They are already close to
mutiny. I must bring Victor to heel or face rebellion.

Julian Augustus                                      8 June
I have not slept for days. The heat at night is almost as bad as
the heat by day. It is like having the fever. We all resemble dried-
up cadavers. I lose my temper with everyone. I struck Callistus
when he fumbled with the fastening of my robes. I quarrelled with
Salutius over a trivial matter, and he was in the right. Tonight
Maximus was with me. We were alone together because Priscus is
sick with dysentery and Anatolius nurses him. While I was
having supper, Maximus tried to cheer me up. He achieved the
opposite.
"But it's so simple. Give the order to march south. They must
obey. You are the Emperor."
"I shall have been the Emperor. They'll kill me first."
"But Cybele herself has told us that you must complete your
work. After all, you are Alexander."
I erupted at this. "No, I am not Alexander, who is dead. I am
Julian, about to die in this forsaken place . . .""No. No ! The gods . . ."
"... misled us! The gods laugh at us! They raise us up for
sport, and throw us down again. There is no more gratitude in
heaven than there is on earth.""Julian . . ."
"You say I was born to do great things. Well, I have done them.
I conquered the Persians. I conquered the Germans. I saved Gaul.

[434]



For what? To delay this world's end for a year or two? Certainly
no longer."
"You were born to restore the worship of the true gods."
"Then why do they let me fail ?"
"You are Emperor still !"
I seized a handful of charred earth from the tent's floor. "That
is all that's left to me. Ashes.""You will live . . ."
"I shall be as dead as Alexander soon enough, but when I go I
take Rome with me. For nothing good will come after. The Goths
and the Galileans will inherit the state, and like vultures and
maggots they'll make clean bones of what is dead, until there is
not even so much as the shadow of a god anywhere on earth."
Maximus hid his face in his hands while I raged on. But after a
time I stopped, ashamed of having made a fool of myself. "It's no
use," I said finally, "I am in Helios's hands, and we are both at the
end of the day. So good night, Maximus, and pray for me that it
will indeed be a good night."
But I can't believe it is over yet. Our army is intact. The Persian
army is broken. We can still go north to Corduene. If Helios
deserts me now, there will be no one to restore his worship.
But this is madness ! Why am I suddenly in such despair ? Why
should I die now, at the height of my reign, at the age of . . . I
had to stop to count ! I am thirty-two.

]ulian Augustus                                    ~o ]une
Afternoon. We are still encamped. Food is running low. No
word from Procopius. Yesterday and again this morning, Persian
cavalry attacked us. They strike at the outskirts of the camp. Then
when we sound the call to arms, they vanish. This is the most
demoralizing kind of warfare.
I must soon decide what to do. Meanwhile, I make daily sacrifice.
The omens are not good. The auguries confused. I want to put
Victor under arrest. Salutius thinks I should wait.

Julian Augustus                                     ~4 Iune
During this morning's staff meeting, there was a sudden racket
outside my tent. I heard the tribune who commands my bodyguard
shout, "Stand back ! Stand back ~"
I went outside. A thousand men, mostly Asiatics, surrounded the
tent. They begged me to lead them home by way of Assyria. They

[455]



For what ? To delay this world's end for a year or two ? Certainly
no longer."
"You were born to restore the worship of the true gods."
"Then why do they let me fail ?"
"You are Emperor still !"
I seized a handful of charred earth from the tent's floor. "That
is all that's left to me. Ashes.""You will live . . ."
"I shall be as dead as Alexander soon enough, but when I go I
take Rome with me. For nothing good will come after. The Goths
and the Gallleans will inherit the state, and like vultures and
maggots they'll make clean bones of what is dead, until there is
not even so much as the shadow of a god anywhere on earth."
Maximus hid his face in his hands while I raged on. But after a
time I stopped, ashamed of having made a fool of myself. "It's no
use," I said finally, "I am in Helios's hands, and we are both at the
end of the day. So good night, Maximus, and pray for me that it
will indeed be a good night."
But I can't believe it is over yet. Our army is intact. The Persian
army is broken. We can still go north to Corduene. If Helios
deserts me now, there will be no one to restore his worship.
But this is madness ! Why am I suddenly in such despair ? Why
should I die now, at the height of my reign, at the age of . . . I
had to stop to count ! I am thirty-two.

Julian Augustus                                    xo June
Afternoon. We are still encamped. Food is running low. No
word from Procopius. Yesterday and again this morning, Persian
cavalry attacked us. They strike at the outskirts of the camp. Then
when we sound the call to arms, they vanish. This is the most
demoralizing kind of warfare.
I must soon decide what to do. Meanwhile, I make daily sacrifice.
The omens are not good. The auguries confused. I want to put
Victor under arrest. Salutius thinks I should wait.

Julian Augustus                                   r4 June
During this morning's staff meeting, there was a sudden racket
outside my tent. I heard the tribune who commands my bodyguard
shout, "Stand back ! Stand back !"
I went outside. A thousand men, mostly Asiatics, surrounded the
tent. They begged me to lead them home by wayof Assyria. They

[4s~]

Jul

~Jre›



had been well coached. They shouted and whined, wept and
threatened. It took me some minutes to silence them. Then I said,
"We shall start for home only when our work is done."Several jeered at this. I pretended not to hear.
"When we do go home, it cannot be by the way we came. Your
general Victor will tell you why." This was a pleasantly ironic
move. Victor was now forced to placate the men he had himself
incited. He did it very well, explaining why the Euphrates route
was no longer open to us. He was plausible, and the men listened to
him respectfully. When he had finished, I assured them that I was
as eager as they to return to safety. At the proper time we would
go; meanwhile, I asked them not to take seriously the Persian-
inspired rumours which I knew were going about the camp. They
dispersed. I turned to Victor.
"This is not the way to force us," I said carefully.
"But, Augustus . . ."
I dismissed him. He has been warned.
Later, I spoke privately to each of the generals. Most are loyal.
For instance, Jovian sat on a stool in my tent, his tunic wet with
perspiration, his face flushed from wine as well as heat. "What-
ever Augustus commands, I will obey." His voice is deep and some-
what hoarse, for he drinks tEose harsh German spirits which burn
the throat.
"Even if I say go south to the Persian Gulf ?"
Jovian squirmed uncomfortably. "That is far away. But if the
Augustus orders us . . ."
"No, I shall not order you. Not now."
He was relieved. "Then that means we'll be going back soon,
won't we ?"
I said nothing.
"Because the longer we stay here, the more difficult it will be.
What with the heat, the Persians . . .""The Persians are defeated."
"But the Great King still has a good many soldiers and this is
their country, not ours."
"Half of it is ours, by right of conquest."
"Yes, Lord. But can we hold it ? I'm for getting out. They say
demons ride with the Persians, especially at night."
I almost laughed in his foolish face. But instead I proposed: "Pray
to your man-god to make them go away."
"If demons haunt us, it is because Christ wills it," he said piously.

[4t6]



I smiled. "I prefer a god who protects those who worship
him."
"I don't know about these things, Augustus, but I say let's make
terms with the Persians and leave this place. Not that it's for me to
decide."
"No, it is not for you to decide. But ! shall bear in mind your
advice." I dismissed Jovian, more depressed than ever.
I make sacrifice in a few minutes.

Julian Augustus                                   ~5 June
Mastara sees great peril no matter what I do. I sacrificed yester-
day and again this morning. There is still no sign. The gods are
silent. I prayed more than an hour to Helios. I looked straight at
him until I was blind. Nothing. I have offended. But how ? I can-
not believe that my anger at the war god would turn all heaven
against me. Who else will do their work ?

Nevitta brings me word that the Asiatic troops already speak
of my successor "who will save them". But apparently there is no
popular choice. They follow Victor hut do not love him. Arintheus?
Emperor ? No. Not even his boys would accept that. Salutius ? He
is loyal to me and yet... I grow suspicious. I am like Constantius
now. I suspect treason on every side. For the first time I fear the
knife in the dark. I make Callistus sleep on the ground beside my
bed while the deaf-mute remains awake most of the night, watch-
ing for the assassin's shadow to fall across the door to my tent. I
never believed that I would become like this. I have never feared
death in battle, and I never thought that I feared murder. But I do.
I find it hard to sleep. When I do, my dreams are of death, sudden,
black, violent. What has gone wrong ?
Beside my bed there is a hook by Aeschylus. Just now I picked
it up and read this at random: "Take heart. Suffering when it
climbs highest lasts but a little time." Well, I am near the peak.
Will it be swift ? or slow ?
Priscus and Maximus spent most of the evening with me. We
talked philosophy. No one mentioned our situation and for a time
I was able to forget that the gods have abandoned me. Yet why do
I think this? Merely because the Persians have burned the country-
side? Or because of the treachery of Procopius, which does not
come as a surprise ? Although things are not so bad as I feel they

f both

e and
rulin~

1ś'11CC.
t

'iex



are, the fact that I have this sense of foreboding is in itself a message
from the gods.
Maximus wanted to stay behind after Priscus left. But I would
not let him, pleading fatigue. I suspect even him. Why should he
be in league with Victor? Everyone knows he has influence over
me, and certainly anyone could buy him if they met his price.
This is insane. Of course Maximus is loyal to me. He has to be. The
Galileans would have his head if I were not here to protect him. I
must stop this brooding or I shall become as mad as those emperors
who feared the long night of death more than they loved the brief
living day. I am still alive; still Augustus; still conqueror of Persia.
Tomorrow we start for home. I gave the order at sundown. The
men cheered me. They don't know what a long journey it is from
here to Corduene. All they know is that we are leaving Persia.
All I know is that the goddess Cybele revealed to me that I was
Alexander born again, and I have failed both her and Alexander,
who is once more a ghost, while I am nothing.
I should have agreed to Sapor's treaty. Now that we are with-
drawing, we shall get worse terms.

Priscus: As well as I knew Julian, I never suspected that he was in
such despair. The exhausted man who scribbled the journal, and
the proud laughing general Maximus and I used to dine with are
two different creatures. Naturally, we knew that he was worried.
But he never betrayed to us that morbid fear of assassination he
writes about. He joked occasionally about the succession, saying
that if Rome were to have a Christian emperor he hoped it would
be Victor because in a year there would be a million converts to
Hellenism. But that was all. He talked as he always talked: rapidly,
enthusiastically, late into the night, reading aloud to us from
the classics, quarrelling with me over Plato's meanings, teasing
Maximus for his ignorance of literature. The great magician,
having always been in such close communion with the gods,
seldom condescended to read the reports of those who could only
guess at the mysteries he knev~.
On ~5 June Julian gave the order to go north along the Tigris to
Corduene and Armenia. The thing was finished. Even Ormisda now
realized that he would never rule in Persia.
At dawn ~6 June we broke camp. Julian asked me to ride with
him. I did not realize until I read the journal what a good actor he
was. That day he was the exuberant, legendary hero, hair and

[438]



beard burned a dull gold by the sun, arms and legs dark, face as
clear and untroubled as a child's; even the constant nose-peeling
had finally stopped and his head looked as if it had been carved
from African wood. We were all quite black except for the pale
Gauls, who turn painfully red in the sun and stay that way. There
was much sunstroke among them.
As we rode through fire-blackened hills, Julian seemed unusually
cheerful. "We haven't done too badly. The campaign has been a
success, though not exactly what I had hoped for."
"Because Ormisda is not Great King ?"
"Yes." He did not elaborate.
We were interrupted by the tribune Valens. It was the only
other time I recall seeing him in Persia. He was not bad-looking,
though physically rather dirty, even as soldiers go. He was pro-
foundly nervous in Julian's presence. "Augustus, the scouts report
an army approaching. From the north."
Julian dug his heels into his horse's ribs and cantered down the
road to the head of the army, two miles distant. Within half an
hour, the sky was dark with swirling dust. The rumour went about
quickly: Procopius has come! But Julian took no chances. We
made a war camp on the spot, with a triple row of shields placed
around us. Then we waited to see whose army it was, Procopius's
or $apor's.
We were on battle alert all day. I bet Anatolius five silver pieces
at three-to-one odds that the army was Sapor's. Neither of us won.
The "army" turned out to be a herd of wild asses.
But that night the Great King's army materialized.

Julian Augustus                                      z7 June
Sapor's army still exists. They are encamped a mile from
us. Cannot tell what their numbers are but not so many as were
assembled at Ctesiphon. Our troops eager for battle. Had to re-
strain them all morning. At noon Persian cavalry attacked one of
our battalions. General Machameus killed. Though wounded, his
brother Maurus fought his way to where the body was lying and
carried it back into camp.
The heat is beyond anything I have ever before endured. Though
we are all of us giddy from too much sun, I ordered the march to
be continued. At first the Persians fell back; then they rallied and
tried to stop us. We butchered them. By afternoon they were all
of them gone except for a band of Saracens who follow us even

[4~9]

e and,

'it:!

'eek

gh



now, waiting for the right moment to raid our baggage train.
I write this sitting on a stool beneath a date palm. Everywhere I
look I see green circles before my eyes. I am dazzled by Helios.
The air is so hot it scorches the lungs. My sweat mingles with the
ink on the page. The letters blur. Few casualties.

Julian Augustus                                                        20 June
For two days we have been encamped at Hucumbra, the estate
of a Persian nobleman who, luckily for us, did not burn his crops
and orchards. Food and water are plentiful. The men are almost
happy. I have ordered them to take all the food they can for we
must burn this place as soon as we leave it. We shall not find so
much food again until we reach our own territory, twenty days'
march from here.

Julian Augustus                                     2~ June
On the march. The country is hilly and barren. We are about
twenty miles to the west of the Tigris, moving north. Early today
the Persian cavalry attacked our infantry rear-guard. Fortunately,
the cavalry of the Petulantes was near by and drove them off. One
of the Great King's counsellors, Adaces, was killed and his armour
brought me by the soldier who struck him down. As I gave the
usual reward, Salutius suddenly said, "We were good friends,
Adaces and I." He then reminded me that the Persian had once
been Sapor's envoy to Constantius.
An ugly business tonight. Instead of attacking the Persians at the
same time as the Petulantes, the cavalry of the Tertiaci gave way.
As a result, what might have been a complete rout of the Persians
became only a skirmish. I broke four tribunes but took no other
action. We shall soon need every man we have, coward or brave.
We are no longer certain where we are. We move in a line
north, but there are no maps to show us where water and villages
are. But two days ago, at Hucumbra, an old Persian who knows
the province well offered to lead us to fertile country. Ormisda
talked with him at length and believes he is not a spy. The old man
says there will be three days of barren country and then we shall
be in the rich valley of Maranga.

Julian Augustus                                                         22 ]une
   Battle. Execution. Vetranio. Victory. Where ?

Priscus: The old Persian was of course a spy who led us straight
into an ambush at Maranga, which was not a "rich valley" but a

[~o]



stony place where we were exposed on all sides to the Persian
army. Julian was just able to form the army into a crescent when
they attacked. The first rain of Persian arrows did little harm.
There was no second flurry. Julian was able to resort to his
favourite tactical exercise, throwing his infantry at the enemy's
archers before they could get proper range.
The fighting went on all day in ovenlike heat. I remained with
the baggage and saw very little of what happened. My principal
memory is of heat, of blood on white rocks, of the hideous trumpet-
ing of elephants reverberating through the narrow valley.
"Execution." The old Persian was crucified when it was dis-
covered that he had deliberately led us into this trap.
"Vetranio." He was commanding officer of the Zianni; he was
killed.
"Victory." The Persian army disappeared at nightfall. Their
casualties were three to our one. But the men were frightened.
The business of the Persian spy had particularly alarmed them.
How far out of the way had he taken us ? Wouldn't it be better-
if riskier - to follow the crooked Tigris north ? All these questions
were addressed to Julian whenever he appeared among the troops.
But he seemed confident as always.
"Where ?" Where indeed !

]ulian Augustus                                     23 June
We are now eight miles from the Tigris. I have decided to follow
the river north, though that is the longest and most dangerous
route, since we shall have to pass many fortresses. Even so, I am
alarmed by this wilderness. We have no idea where we are. The
advantage is entirely the enemy's. We are short of food. I have
ordered my own supplies given to the men. Ormisda tells me that
the Great King is again ready to make peace on terms still favour-
able to us. Ormisda advises me to accept the treaty. This alarms
me most. If Ormisda has given up his dream of the Persian throne,
the war is lost.

Julian Augustus                                     25 June
There seems to be a tacit truce between the Persians and us. They
have completely vanished. We are remaining in camp, tending to
the wounded, repairing armour, getting ready for the long journey
north. I feel like Xenophon, who also went this way.
A while ago I fell asleep while reading The March Upcountry.

~li~ n
~ptty
~. ,tin~

an(



So deep was my sleep that I did not realize I was dreaming (usually
I do). I thought I was wide awake. I was even aware of the oil
lamp sputtering as insects passed through its flame and burned.
Suddenly I felt someone watching me. I looked up and there at the
door to the tent was the tall figure of a man with head veiled; in
one hand he held the horn of plenty. At first, I tried to speak, but
could not-tried to rise but could not. For a long moment the
spectre looked at me sadly. Then without a word the figure turned
and left my tent, and I awakened, cold as a corpse. I leapt to my
feet and crossed to the tent opening. I looked out. Except for the
sleepy sentry no one was in sight. Small fires glowed in the dark-
ness. I looked up just as a star fell in the west; it came from on
high, flared briefly, then vanished.
I awakened Callistrus. "Fetch me Maximus. And Mastara.
Quickly."
When they arrived, I told them about the star. I showed them
exactly where it had fallen in the sky.
Mastara interpreted. "According to the book of Tages, when a
meteor is seen to fall in time of war, no battle must be undertaken
for twenty-four hours, nor a move of any kind."
I turned to Maximus. "Well, at least it was not my star."
Maximus was reassuring, but Mastara was firm. "One thing is
certain. You must remain here in camp another day."
"But I have given orders. Tomorrow we cross to the Tigris."
"You asked me, Highest Priest, for the word of Tages and I have
given it."
I allowed Mastara to go. Then I told Maximus of the dream. He
was troubled. "Are you so certain the figure was Rome ?"
"Yes. I saw him once before, in Parris, when he ordered me to
take the purple."
Maximus frowned. "It could of course be a demon. They are
everywhere in this cursed land. Why, even as I walked here to-
night, I felt them all about me, tugging at my beard, my staff, test-
ing my power."
"This was not a demon. It was the Spirit of Rome. And he
abandoned me."
"Don't say that ! After all, in three weeks we shall be home. You
can raise a new army. Then you shall complete Alexander's
work . . ."
"Perhaps." Suddenly I found myself tired of Maximus. He means
to be helpful, but he is not always right. He is not a god; nor am I.



Much against his wish, I sent him away. Before he left, he begged
me not to break camp tomorrow. But I told him we must move on
no matter what the omens tell us.
Callistus is polishing my armour. He says the breastplate straps
are broken, but he will have the armourer fix them before we leave
tomorrow. The deaf mute sits at my feet. He plays a Lydian song,
very old and very strange; yet one can recognize the voice of
Dionysos in the melody. To think, the god sings to us still, though
the golden age is gone and the sacred groves deserted.

For an hour I walked among the tents, unobserved by the men.
I gather strength from the army. They are my life, the element in
which I have my being. That is the final irony. I who wanted to
live at Athens as a student have been eight years a general. Such is
fate.
I paused at Anatolius's tent. Through the flap, I could see
Anatolius and Priscus playing draughts. I nearly spoke to them.
But then I realized that I am hardly the best of company tonight.
So instead I sat in front of my tent, watching the sky. My own star
bums bright as ever. If it were not for tonight's troubling dream, I
would be content. Without reinforcements, we have done all that
we could do in this place. But what's to be done with Victor and
the Galileans ? Nevitta tells me that I am not safe. Yet what can
they do to me ? If I am openly murdered, the Gauls and Franks will
slaughter the Asiatics. If secretly . . . but when an emperor dies
suddenly in his youth it is not secret. No, they do not dare strike
at me, yet. Curious, as I lie here on the lion bed, I think of some-
thing Mardonius once told Gallus and me

?riscus: That is the last entry, broken off by sleep, and then by
death.

[443]



XXIII

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 non-
combatants 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, cavalry-
men, 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 m~lde 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

[445]



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 $alutius 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.
$alutius shook his head and put his fingers to his lips. With a
howl like an animal in pain, Nevitta fled the tent. $alutius 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."

[446]



"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 de-
feated. 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 to-
morrow, 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."
[t47]



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 suc-
cession. 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 be-
quests. Send for Anatolius."
It was Salutius who said, "He is happy, Lord." The classic ex-
pression 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 dis-
cussed 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

[449]



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." Instinc-
tively, 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 ?"

[4~o]



"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 l~haedo. 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 cover-
ing 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 examin-
ing 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 7"
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 in-
advertently 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.

[452]



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 circum-
stances 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 accom-
plished. 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 Sebas-
tian 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

lends.
opl..,
ld~

res a

.ks,

~hcs~



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 particu-
larly 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 7ou to involve me in your account.
After a tedious trip to Philippopolis in the company of tax col-
lectors 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 ?"
[4SS]


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"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 won-
dered 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

[456]



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 every-
thing. He regards himself as one of the world's unique heroes, the

[457]

~ce



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 breast-
plate." 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

[4~8]



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 Valen-
tinian took Jovian's place and that was the end of Victor. Mean-
while, 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. śvery 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.

reek~,~

[459]



XXIV

Libanius, Quaestor of Antioch, to the                      Antioch, May 385
Lord Theodosius, AutIustus of the East
May it please Your Eternity, I have it in mind to compose a
biography of your famous predecessor the Augustus Julian, employ-
ing certain of his private papers which have only recently come
into my possession.
Since Your Eternity expressed pleasure in my ode, "On Avenging
the Emperor Julian", I need hardly mention that I intend to pursue
my labour of vindication in precisely the same discreet style as the
ode which you so graciously admired. Realizing as I do the religious
and political implications of this work, I am impelled not only
to remind the Augustus of my perfect (and obvious!) loyalty to
his sacred person and sagacious policies but to assure him that I
intend to relate this marvellous tale with the conscious delicacy
which the subject inspires and the times require.
Lord, those of us who cherish the old ways (yet mean to obey to
the letter your just and necessary edicts) will be for ever beholden
to your magnanimity in allowing me to write with love and
candour of a hero whose deeds once blazed upon an astonished
and fortunate earth like the sun itself and whose fame in its day
(though as nothing compared to Your Eternity's) was Rome's shield
against the barbarian. It is my humble wish to reflect that remem-
bered glory in the pages of my own dim but faithful prose.
My cherished friend, the Bishop Meletius, who is now at Con-
stantinople, has told me that he will put my case to Your Eternity
with the same high eloquence with which he has for so many
decades enlightened the congregations of the East. Accept, then,
oh Lord, the homage of one who is old and close to death, and
wants nothing for himself but truth, and its telling.

Eutropius, Master of the Offices, to Libanius, Quaestor of Antioch
Constantinople, June
The Augustus has read your letter with the interest anything
you write deserves. He has commanded me to tell you that it is not
possible at this time to publish a life of the late Augustus Julian.
You refer to Bishop Meletius. He is dead. He was stricken last

[460]



week during a session of the Ecumenical Council. His remains have
already been sent to Antioch for burial. I am, however, at liberty
to tell you that before the Bishop died, he asked the Augustus to
recognize as legitimate your natural son Cimon. The Augustus is
pleased to comply with this holy man's request. The documents
are now being prepared by my office and will be forwarded in due
course to the Count of the East, who will in turn deliver them to
the governor of Syria, at which time you will be officially notified.
It would not be remiss, Quaestor, were you to send the Augustus
a complete edition of your works. He would value them.

Libanius to himself
I have just come from the funeral of Bishop Meletius, which was
held in the Golden House on the island. I don't think I would have
been able to cope with the mob in the square if I had not been
with Cimon. It seems that all Antioch was on hand to say farewell
to their bishop.
The crowd recognized me, as they always do, and they made
way for my litter. There was a certain amount of good-humoured
comment about "pagans" (a new word of contempt for us
Hellenists) attending Christian services, but I pretended not to hear.
Just inside the arcade Cimon lifted me out of the litter. I have been
suffering lately from gout not only in my right foot, as usual, but
also in my left. Though I use both a crutch and a staff, I can barely
hobble without assistance. Fortunately, Cimon, good son that he
is, got me safely inside the church. He was also able to provide me
with one of the chairs which had been reserved for the governor's
party (the Christians stand during their services and only great
visitors may sit).
Of course I saw nothing. I can distinguish light and dark, but
little else. I do have some sight out of the corner of my left eye,
and if I hold my head at a certain cocked angle I can see well
enough to read for a short while, but the effort is so great that I
prefer to spend my days in the cloudy subaqueous world of the
blind. My impression of the church interior was one of pale circles
(faces) and dark columns (cloaks of mourning). The air was thick
with incense and the inevitable heavy odour of people massed
together on a summer day.
Prayers were said and eulogies delivered, but I am afraid that
I wool-gathered during the service. I could think of nothing but
that curt letter from the Sacred Palace. I am not to publish. Not

[46~]



even the legitimizing of Cimon can compensate for that cruel
blow.
As I sat in the hot octagonal church, the altar to my left and the
tall marble pulpit to my right, I was suddenly conscious of the
voice of the priest officiating. Like most blind or near-blind people,
I am acutely sensitive to voices. Some delight me; others (even those
of friends) distress me. This particular voice, I noted with some
pleasure, was deep and resonant, with that curious urgency which
I always find appealing. The speaker was delivering a eulogy of
Meletius. I listened attentively. The words were gracefully chosen;
the periods artful; the content conventional. When the priest had
finished, I turned to Cimon and whispered, "Who is that ?"
"John Chrysostom, the new deacon, appointed last month by
Meletius. You know him.""Do I ?"
But the service had continued and we kept silent while the new
bishop blessed the congregation. Who was this John "Golden-
Mouth" ? Where did I know him from ? Had he been a pupil ? And
if he had, would I be able to recall him ? My memory is not what
it was; also, I have taught literally thousands of men and no one
could remember them all. Finally, when the ceremonies ended,
Cimon got me to my feet just as the governor of Syria passed us.
I recognized him by the colour of his robe. The governor paused
when he saw me.
"Ah, Quaestor, how good to see you in such blooming health."
The governor is an ass, who means well. "The old tree survives,"
I said. "But it does not bloom."
However, he had turned to my son. "It is not premature, I hope,
to congratulate you on the Emperor's favour."
Cimon was delighted; he craves honour, the way some men crave
truth.
"No, Governor, not premature at all. Many thanks. My father
and I were both delighted at the Emperor's kindness."
"You must give me some advice, Cimon." And the governor took
my son by the arm and led him away, leaving me stranded in the
church, blind as Homer and lame as Hephaestos. I confess to a
moment of anger. Cimon should have remained with me. He could
have made an appointment to see the governor at another time.
But Cimon is a lawyer, and one must be tolerant. Even so, I found
it difficult to forgive him when I realized that I was now alone in
the Golden House, unable to see and hardly able to walk. Leaning

[462]



heavily on my stick, like some night-creature dazzled by day, I
crept towards what I hoped would be the door. I had taken no
more than a step when a firm hand took me by the arm.
"Thank you," I said to the vague shape beside me. "I seem to be
deserted, and I do need help. I cannot see."
"Any help I give you is nothing compared to the help you have
given me." I recognized the voice of the deacon John Chrysostom.
I pretended to remember him. "Oh, yes, John . . ."
"They call me Chrysostom. But you remember me as the son of
Anthusa and . . ."
I did remember him. I knew exactly who he was. "My best
student !" I exclaimed. "Stolen from me by Christians !"He laughed. "Not stolen, found."
"So my John is the famous Chrysostom the people listen to."
"They listen. But do they understand ? After all, I am strange to
them. For ten years I have been in the desert, alone . . ."
"And now you've come back to the world to be a bishop ?"
"I have come back to the world to preach, to tell the truth, the
way my old teacher does."
"We hold a different view of what is true," I said more sharply
than I intended.
"Perhaps not so different." We had paused near the door. With
an effort, I could just make out the lean face of my old pupil.
John has begun to grow bald, and he wears a short beard. But I
confess that even were my sight better I should not have recog-
nized him; it has been nearly twenty years since he studied with
me.
"Before he left Antioch, Bishop Meletius told me of your plan
to write about the Emperor Julian." I wondered if John could see
into my mind. Why else would he mention the one thing which
most concerned me yet could hardly interest him ?
"Unfortunately, it is no longer a plan. The Emperor has for-
bidden me to punish."
"I'm sorry. I know what Julian meant to you. I saw him once.
I must have been about fifteen. It was iust before I came to you,
to study. I saw him the day he left the city for Persia. I was in
the crowd, in the forum, standing on the rim of the Nymphaeum
when he rode by. I remember the people were shouting some.
thing rude . . ."
"Felix Julian Augustus," I murmured, hearing again the chant-
ing of that malicious crowd.

[463]



"Yes. I was so close to him I could have touched his horse. And
though my mother had told me I should hate him, I thought he
was the most splendid man I ever saw, and when he looked my
way, his eye suddenly caught mine, and he smiled as though we
were friends, and I thought to myself: this man is a saint, why do
they hate him ? Later of course I realized why they hated him, but
I have never understood why he hated us."
I burst into tears. I have never been so humiliated, or felt so
ridiculous. The most famous philosopher of his time, if I may say
so, was weeping like a child in front of a former pupil. But John
was tactful. He said not a word until the storm had passed, and
then he made no reference to my senile outburst. He took my
arm and led me to the door. Then he turned round and indicated
a high place on the opposite wall. "New work," he said. "I think
it quite beautiful." I twisted my head so that I could see-just
barely - what appeared to be the giant figure of a man with arms
outstretched.
"Can you see him clearly ?"
"Oh, yes," I lied. The gold mosaic glowed like the sun itself in
the afternoon light.
"It is Christ Pantocrator, come to redeem us. The face is particu-
larly fine."
"Yes, I see the face," I said flatly. And I did: the dark cruel face
of an executioner.
"But you don't like what you see ?"
"How can I, when what I see is death."
"But death is not the end."
"It is the end of life."
"This life . . ."
"Life l" I turned on him fiercely. "You have chosen death, all of
you . . ."
"No, not death. We have chosen life eternal~ the resurrection of
the . . ."
"That is a story to tell children. The truth is that for thousands
of years we looked to what was living. Now you look to what is
dead, you worship a dead man and tell one another that this world
is not for us, while the next is all that matters. Only there is no
next world."
"We believe . . ."
"This is all we have, John Chrysostom. There is nothing else.
Turn your back on this world, and you face the pit!"

[464J



There was a silence. Then John said, "Do you see no significance
in our victory ? For we have won. You must admit that."
I shrugged. "The golden age ended. So will the age of iron, so
will all things, including man. But with your new god, the hope of
human happiness has ended."
"For ever?" he taunted me gently.
"Nothing man invents can last for ever, including Christ, his
most mischievous invention."
John did not answer. We were now outside the church. The day
was pleasantly warm. People I could not see greeted me. Then my
son hurried up and I said good-bye to John and got into my litter.
All the way home to Daphne, Cimon babbled about his interview
with the governor. He has hope of "governmental preferment".
I am alone in my study. I have already put away Julian's papers.
The thing is finished. The world Julian wanted to preserve and
restore is gone... but I shall not write "for ever", for who can
know the future ? Meanwhile, the barbarians are at the gate. Yet
when they breach the wall, they will find nothing of value to
seize, only empty relics. The spirit of what we were has fled. So
be it.
I have been reading Plotinus all evening. He has the power to
soothe me; and I find his sadness curiously comforting. Even when
he writes: "Life here with the things of earth is a sinking, a defeat,
a failing of the wing." The wing has indeed failed. One sinks.
Defeat is certain. Even as I write these lines, the lamp wick sputters
to an end, and the pool of light in which I sit contracts. Soon the
room will be dark. One has always feared that death would be like
this. But what else is there ? With Julian, the light went, and now
nothing remains but to let the darkness come, and hope for a new
sun and another day, born of time's mystery and man's love of
light.

April ~959 - 6 January t96~t, Rome

~eopl

Se.~l I I

[465]



A PARTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

Julian, The Works of the Emperor.
Ammianus Marcellinus, The History.
Libanius, Orations: "In Praise of Antioch", "To Julian", "Monody
on Julian", "Epitaph on Julian", "On Avenging Julian", et
cetera.
Gregory Nazianzen, "Oration Against Julian".
Sozomen, Ecclesiastical History.
Socrates, Ecclesiastical History.
Theodoret, A History of the Church.
Eunapius, Lives of the Philosophers.
Pausanias, Description of Greece.
Edward Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
Jacob Burckhardt, The ARe of Constantine the Great.
1t.. A. Pack, Studies in Libanius and Antiochene Society under
Theodosius.
T. R. Glover, Life and Letters in the Fourth Century.
J. Bidez, La Vie de l'Empereur ]ulien.
J. B. Bury, History oś the Later Roman Empire.
Franz Cumont, The Mysteries of Mithra.
Norman Baynes, "The Early Life of Julian the Apostate", Journal
of Hellenic Studies, Vol. XLV, pages 251-254.
G. E. Mylonas, Eleusis and the Eleusinian Mysteries.
M. J. Vermaseren, Mithras: The Secret God.
Glanville Downey, Ancient Antioch.
Glanville Downey, Antioch in the Age of Theodosius the Great.
Stebelton H. Nulle, "Julian Redivivus", The Centennial Review,
Vol. V, No. 3, summer.

[466]



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