by Gore Vidal
"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 Mithras…
"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 Chalcis, I think, he died a few years ago, much admired by a small circle, but I've always thought his prose unreasonably 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 worshipped 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 intelligible 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 seeor 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 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 HeliosMithras 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 grandmother'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 grandmothers 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.
III
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 hebecause so many members of his own family were—because they, ah, died!"
"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; shattering this particular 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 merciful. 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 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 Constantinople. When Constantius inherited the principate, he acquired the lodge, along with a number of other properties in the neighbourhood; 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 nearby 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 winning 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." So I read my books.
We were nominally in the charge of Bishop George of Cappadocia 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 in that pernicious doctrine"—I had been welldrilled 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 complimentary. "You have an extraordinary gift for analysis," he said one day when I was exploring with him John 14:25, 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 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 religious sects, and by no means the largest. Their days of domination are over. Not only have I forbidden them to persecute us Hellenis
ts; 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 reading Plato, who was far more to my taste. After all, I was something of a literary snob. I had been taught the best Greek by Mardonius. I could not help but compare the barbarous backcountry 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 afternoon 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 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 flowering all about us and the day hazy with heat.
