by Gore Vidal
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. She 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.
Julian Augustus
Even today, Prohaeresius is a man I greatly admire. I say "even today" because he is a Galilean and has opposed my edict forbidding 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 questions, 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 interminable 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, introducing 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. Occasionally 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 winning. 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 himself). 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 geniality 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 Constantinople, 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 ceremony 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 weakness 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 nodded. "Not the day, not the year, merely the fact. 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… 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 Constantius 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.
"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 innocents 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 uncharacteristically 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 Constantius. 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 strenuously 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 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 argument?" I was naïve, 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 conversation, 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. Pris
cus 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 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."
