by Gore Vidal
Priscus: Julain here is misrepresnting everything. Ecebolius we know about. Whatever the reigning emperor worshipped, Ecebolius adored. Now I was not at Athens when the dict took effect, but Prohaeresius told me later that he himself promptly stopped teaching. Later, when his personal exemption arrived, he still refused 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 pretended 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 converted 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 irritable and began to retaliate. The Edict on Education was, he thought, a terminal blow. 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 constantly 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.
Julian 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 testaments 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 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 appearances. 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 magistrates, 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 themselves Galileans in the most passionate way, demanding I persecute those not of their persuasion.
In Antioch the Galileans are divided between blind followers of 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 because 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 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 research 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. Accompanied by Maximus and Oribasius (who grumbled at the early hour), I crossed the bridge to the Syrian quarter. I was accompanied 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. Luckily, 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, joining 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 themselves 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.
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 movements meaningless. Yet even drugged, one can tell a good deal. The 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 suppose, 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 misplaced 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 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 h
ad 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 himself 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 competition 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.
