Julian, by Gore Vidal

by Unknown

  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 yellowgreen 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 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 towards 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 without a word of anger or reproach Gallus had ordered him to dismount 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 delightful, 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 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 contrived 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 command. Bishop George then presented him with a Galilean testament 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 ourselves we are strange.

  On 1 June 348, 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

  "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 adolescent with a beard thick on the chin, spotty on the upper lip, invisible 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 Emperor, 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. 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, especially 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 him, but then Gallus was neither intelligent 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. So 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 literature, 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 this I resembled a great many contemporary Sophists who—having no ideas of their own—string together the unrelated sayings 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 predictable. 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. "Incidentally, 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 suddenly 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 bad-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 w
ho 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 disrupted 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)… 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.