by Gore Vidal
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 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 retaliate, 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 monkeychatter, I spoke quickly and loudly, "Yet I am willing to believe he 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 4 February. There was to be universal toleration. The Galileans could do as they pleased among their own kind though they were not to persecute 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 suggests 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 without 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 appropriate 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."
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 suddenly 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 div
ision, 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 Scholarian 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 if 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". Unfortunately, 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, Constantius 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. Flowering 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 surprised 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 withdraw from the border, to leave Mesopotamia. Almost anything you ask, he will do."
I looked at him gravely. He looked at me. 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 gruesome 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 burdensome. He has no lightne
ss 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.
