Julian, by Gore Vidal

by Unknown

  Between the Mithraic story and its Christian sequel I see no essential difference. Admittedly, the Mithraic code of conduct is more admirable than the Christian. Mithraists believe that right action is better than contemplation. They fayour old-fashioned virtues like courage and self-restraint. They were the first to teach that strength is gentleness. All of this is rather better than the Christian hysteria which vacillates between murder of heretics on the one hand and a cringing rejection of this world on the other. Nor can a Mithraist be absolved of sin by a sprinkle of water. Ethically, I find Mithras the best of all the mystery cults. But it is absurd to say it is any more "true" than its competitors. When one becomes absolute about myth and magic, the result can only be madness.

  Julian speaks continually of his love of Hellenism. He honestly believed he loved Plato and reasonable discourse. Actually, what he craved was what so many desire in this falling time: assurance of personal immortality. He chose to reject the Christian way for reasons which I find obscure, while settling on an equal absurdity. Of course I am sympathetic to him. He dealt the Christians some good blows and that delighted me. But I cannot sympathize with his fear of extinction. Why is it so important to continue after death? We never question the demonstrable fact that before birth we did not exist, so why should we fear becoming once more what we were to begin with? I am in no hurry to depart. But I look on nothing as just that: no thing. How can one fear no thing?

  As for the various ceremonies and trials the Mithraic initiate must undergo, the less said the better. I understand that one of the twelve tortures is the pulling out one by one of the pubic hairs, a most spiritual discipline. I was also told that part of the ceremonies are conducted while everyone is roaring drunk and trying to jump over ditches blindfolded, a symbol no doubt of the bewildering life of the flesh. But men are impressed by secret rites, the more gruesome and repellent the better. How sad we are, how terrified to be men!

  Libanius: It is not often one finds a philosopher so entirely lacking in the religious sense. It is like being born unable to perceive colours which are plain to everyone else. Priscus does have a logical mind and a precise way of stating things, but he is blind to what truly matters. Like Julian, I was admitted to the Mithraic rites during my student days. The impression the mysteries made on me was profound, though I confess that the effect was not as revealing—for me—as it was for Julian. But I had never been a Christian, so I was not making a dramatic and dangerous break with the world I belonged to. However, for Julian it was a brave thing to do. Had Constantius learned of what he had done, it might have cost him his life. Fortunately, Maximus managed the affair so skilfully that Constantius never knew that at the age of nineteen his cousin ceased to be a Christian, in a cave beneath Mount Pion. Priscus seems to have missed the point of the Mithraic mysteries, which does not surprise me. Priscus applauds our high ethical standards. We are grateful to him. But he finds the rites "repellent". Of course he knows about them only by hearsay, since no one who has been initiated may recount what happens in the cave. But though the "trials" are often disagreeable, the revelation is worth all the pain that one has borne. I for one cannot imagine a world without Mithras.

  Priscus observes with his usual harsh candour that the Christians are gradually absorbing various aspects of the cult. A thought suddenly occurs to me: might not this be the way in which we finally conquer? Is it not possible that the absorber will become so like the absorbed that in time they will be us?

  Julian Augustus

  In March 351, I was admitted to the mysteries of Mithras. On that day I watched the rising of the sun; and I watched its setting, taking care to be unobserved, for since Constantius had made it illegal to pray to the sun, people had even been arrested for watching a sunset. Spies and informers were everywhere.

  I had told Ecebolius that I intended to.spend the day hunting on the slopes of Mount Pion. Since he hated hunting, he excused himself as I knew he would. He quoted Homer. I quoted Horace. He quoted Virgil. I quoted Theocritus. Together we used up nearly all of literature's references to hunting.

  The next obstacle was the bodyguard. Twelve soldiers and one officer were assigned to my household. At all times I was attended by at least two men. What to do about them? It was Maximus who decided that since Mithras is the soldier's religion, at least two of the soldiers should prove sympathetic. Maximus was fight. Of the twelve, five were Mithraists. It was then an easy matter to get two of the five assigned to me for the day. As Mithraic brothers, they were under the seal of secrecy.

  An hour before dawn, Oribasius, the soldiers and I left the house. At the mountain's edge we were met by Maximus and nine fathers. In silence we climbed the slope. At a pre-ordained spot, beneath a fig tree, we stopped and waited for the sun to rise.

  The sky turned pale. The morning star shone blue. Dark clouds broke. Then just as the sun appeared on the horizon, a single shaft of light struck the rock behind us and I realized that it was not just ordinary rock, but a door into the mountainside. We prayed then to the sun and to his companion Mithras, our saviour.

  When the sun was at last above the horizon, Maximus opened the door into the mountain and we entered a small cave with seats carved out of the rock. Here Oribasius and I were told to wait while the fathers of Mithras withdrew into yet another cave, the inner sanctuary. Thus began the most momentous day of my life. The day of the honey and of the bread and the wine; the day of the seven gates and the seven planets; the day of challenges and of passwords; the day of prayer and, at its end (past Raven, Bride, Soldier, Lion, Persian, Courier of the Sun, and Father), the day of Nama Nama Sebesio.

  Libanius: Of all the mysteries, excepting those at Eleusis, the Mithraic is the most inspiring, for in the course of it one actually experiences the folly of earthly vanity. At each of the seven stages, the initiate acts out what his soul will one day experience as it rises amongst the seven spheres, losing one by one its human faults. At Ares, the desire for war returns to its source; at Zeus, ambition is lost; at Aphrodite, sex, and so on until the soul is purged. Then… But I can say no more. Nama Nama Sebesio.

  Julian Augustus

  When the day ended, Oribasius and I stumbled from the cave, born again.

  It was then that it happened. As I looked at the setting sun, I was possessed by light. What is given to few men was given to me. I saw the One. I was absorbed by Helios and my veins coursed not with blood but light.

  I saw it all. I saw the simplicity at the heart of creation. The thing which is impossible to grasp without the help of divinity, for it is beyond language and beyond mind: yet it is so simple that I marvelled at how one could not have known what is always there, a part of us iust as we are part of it. What happened inside the cave was a testing and a learning, but what happened to me outside the cave was revelation.

  I saw the god himself as I knelt among sage bushes, the red slanting sunlight full in my face. I heard that which cannot be written or told and I saw that which cannot be recorded in words or images. Yet even now, years later, it is as vivid in retrospect as it was at the time. For I was chosen on that steep mountainside to do the great work in which I am now engaged: the restoration of the worship of the One God, in all his beautiful singularity.

  I remained kneeling until the sun was gone. Then I knelt in darkness for what I am told was an hour. I knelt until Oribasius became alarmed and awakened me… or put me to sleep, for the "real" world ever since has seemed to me the dream while my vision of Helios is the reality.

  "Are you all right?"

  I nodded and got to my feet. "I have seen…" But I stopped. I could not say what I had seen. Even now, writing this memoir, I cannot describe what I experienced since there is nothing comparable in ordinary human experience.

  But Maximus immediately recognized what had happened to me. "He has been chosen," he said. "He knows."

  Silently we returned to the city. I did not want to talk to anyone, not even to Maximus, for I was still enfolded by wings of light. E
ven the back of my hand where I had received the sacred tattoo did not hurt me. But at the city gate my absorption was rudely shattered by a large crowd which surrounded me, shouting,

  "Great news!"

  I was bewildered. All I could think was: has the god remained with me? is what I saw visible to all? I tried to speak to Maximus and Oribasius but we could not make ourselves heard.

  At the prefect's house, I found Ecebolius with the town prefect and what looked to be the whole council. When they saw me, they fell to their knees. For an instant I thought it was indeed the end of the world and that I had been sent as messenger to separate the good from the bad. But Ecebolius quickly dispelled all thought of apocalypse.

  "Most noble Julian, your brother…" All about us, men began to repeat Gallus's names and titles. "… has been raised by the divine Augustus to share with him the purple. Gallus is Caesar in the East. He is also to be married to Constantia, divine sister of the divine Augustus!"

  There was loud cheering and eager hands touched my robe, my hands, my arms. Favours were requested, blessings demanded. Finally, I broke through the mob and got inside the house.

  "But why are they all behaving like lunatics?" I turned on Ecebolius, as though it were his fault.

  "Because you are now the brother of a reigning Caesar."

  "Much good it will do them… or me." This was unwise, but it relieved me to say it.

  "Surely you don't want them to love you for yourself?"

  Oribasius teased me. "You quite enjoyed the attention, until you heard the news."

  "Only because I thought it was the sun…" I stopped myself just in time.

  "The sun?" Ecebolius looked puzzled.

  "Only the son of God should be treated in this fashion," said Maximus smoothly. "Men should not worship other men, not even princes."

  Ecebolius nodded. "A relic of the bad old days, I'm afraid. The Augustus of Rome is of course 'divine' though not truly a god as men used to think. But come in, come in. The baths are ready. And the prefect is giving us a banquet to celebrate the good news."

  So I beheld the One God on the same day that I learned my brother had been made Caesar. The omen was plain enough. Each was now set in his destiny. From that day on I was Hellenist or, as the Gallleans like to call me (behind my back, of course!), apostate. And Gallus reigned in the East.

  VI

  "Naturally the Caesar is concerned."

  "But without cause."

  "Without cause? You are a pupil of Maximus."

  "I am also a pupil of Ecebolius."

  "But he has not been with you for a year. Your brother feels that you are in need of a spiritual guide, especially now."

  "But Maximus is responsible."

  "Maximus is not a Christian. Are you?" The question came at me like a stone from a sling. I stared a long moment at the blackrobed Deacon Aetius of Antioch. He stared serenely back. I was close to panic. What did they know of me at Gallus's court?

  "How can you doubt that I am a Christian?" I said finally. "I was instructed by two great bishops. I am a church reader. I attend every important church ceremony here at Pergamon." I looked at him, simulating righteousness doubted. "Where could such a rumour get started? If there is such a rumour."

  "You cannot be seen too often in the company of a man like Maximus without people wondering."

  "What shall I do?"

  "Give him up." The answer was prompt.

  "Is that my brother's order?"

  "It is my suggestion. Your brother is concerned. That is all. He sent me here to question you. I have."

  "Are you satisfied?"

  Aetius smiled. "Nothing ever satisfies me, most noble Julian. But I shall tell the Caesar that you are a regular communicant of the church. I shall also tell him that you will no longer study with Maximus."

  "If that is the wisest course, then that is the course I shall take."

  This ambiguity seemed to satisfy Aetius. My friends often tell me that I might have made a good lawyer. As I escorted Aetius to the street, he looked about him and said, 'The owner of this house…'"… is Oribasius."

  "An excellent physician."

  "Is it wise for me to see him?" I could not resist this.

  "A highly suitable companion," said Aetius smoothly. He paused at the door to the street. "Your brother, the Caesar, often wonders why you do not come to visit him at Antioch. He feels that court life might have a… 'polishing' effect upon you. The word is his, not mine."

  "I'm afraid I was not made for a court, even one as celebrated as my brother's. I resist all attempts to polish me, and I detest politicians."

  "A wise aversion."

  "And a true one. I want only to live as I do, as a student."

  "Studying to what end?"

  "To know myself. What else?"

  "Yes. What else?" Aetius got into his carriage. "Be very careful, most noble Julian. And remember: a prince has no friends. Ever."

  "Thank you, Deacon."

  Aetius departed. I went back into the house. Oribasius was waiting for me.

  "You heard every word?" I hardly made a question of it. Oribasius and I have never had any secrets between us. On principle, he eavesdrops.

  "We've been indiscreet, to say the least."

  I nodded. I was gloomy. "I suppose I shall have to stop seeing Maximus, at least for a while."

  "You might also insist that he not talk to everyone about his famous pupil."

  I sighed. I knew that Maximus tended—tends—to trade on his relationship with me. Princes get very used to that. I don't resent it. In fact, I am happy if my friends prosper as a result of knowing me. I had learned Oribasius's lesson, and I do not expect to be loved for myself. After all, I don't love others for themselves, only for what they can teach me. Since nothing is free, to each his price.

  I summoned a secretary and wrote Maximus asking him to remain at Ephesus until further notice. I also wrote a note to the bishop of Pergamon to tell him that I would read the lesson on the following Sunday.

  "Hypocrite," said Oribasius when the secretary had gone

  "A tong-lived hypocrite is preferable to a dead… what?" I often have trouble finishing epigrams. Or rather I start one without having first thought through to the end, a bad habit.

  "A dead reader. Aetius has a good deal of influence with Gallus, hasn't he?"

  "So they say. He is his confessor. But who can control my brother?" Without thinking, I had lowered my voice to a whisper. For Gallus had become as suspicious of treason as Constantius. His spies were everywhere.

  I blame Gallus's wife Constantia for the overt change in his character. She was Constantius's sister and took it for granted that conspiracy is the natural business of the human race. I never met this famous lady but I am told that she was as cruel as Gallus, and far more intelligent. She was also ambitious, which he was not. He was quite content to remain Caesar in the East. But she wanted him to be the Augustus and she plotted the death of her own brother to achieve this end. As for Gallus, even now I cannot bear to write about his reign.

  Priscus: I can. And you certainly can! After all, you were living at Antioch while that little beast was Caesar.

  Curiously enough, Julian almost never mentioned Gallus to me, or to anyone. I have always had a theory—somewhat borne out by the memoir—that Julian was unnaturally attracted to his brother. He continually refers to his beauty. He also tends to write of him in that hurt tone one uses to describe a lover who has been cold. Julian professes to find mysterious what everyone else found only too obvious: Gallus's cruelty. Julian was naïve, as I find myself continually observing (if I repeat myself, do forgive me and blame it on our age).

  Actually, the member of the family for whom I have the most sympathy is Constantius. He was quite a good ruler, you know. We tend to undervalue him because his intelligence was of the second rank, and his religious mania troubling. But he governed well, considering that he had problems of a sort which might have made any man a monster. He made so
me of his worst mistakes for the best of reasons, like creating Gallus Caesar.

  It is significant that Julian blames Gallus's wife for the reign of terror in the East. I had always thought that they were equally to blame. But you lived through what must have been a terrible time. You doubtless know who was responsible for what.

  Libanius: Yes, I do know. At the beginning, we all had great hopes for Gallus. I recall vividly Gallus's first appearance before the senate of Antioch. How hopeful we were! He was indeed as handsome as men say, though that day he was suffering from a heat rash, as fair people sometimes do in our sultry climate. But despite a mottled face, he carried himself well. He looked as one born to rule. He made us a most graceful speech. Afterwards, I was presented to him by my old friend Bishop Meletius.

  "Oh, yes." Gallus frowned. "You are that teacher-fellow who denies God."

  "I deny God nothing, Caesar. My heart is open to him at all times."

  "Libanius is really most admirable, Caesar." Meletius always enjoyed making me suffer.

  "I am sure he is." Then Gallus gave me a smile so dazzling that I was quite overwhelmed. "Come see me," he said, "and I shall personally convert you."

  A few weeks later, to my surprise, I received an invitation to the palace. When I arrived at the appointed hour, I was shown into a large room where, side by side on a couch, lay Gallus and Constantia.

  In the centre of the room two nude boxers were pummelling one another to death. When I had recovered from my first shock at this indecent display, I tried to make my presence known. I coughed. I mumbled a greeting. But I was ignored. Gallus and Constantia were completely absorbed by the bloody spectacle. As the world knows, I hate gladiatorial demonstrations because they reduce men to the level of beasts—and I do not mean those unfortunates who are forced to perform. I mean those who watch. I was particularly shocked by Constantia. It was hard to realize that this bright-eyed unwomanly spectator was the daughter of Constantine the Great, sister of the Augustus, wife of the Caesar. She seemed more like an unusually cruel courtesan. Yet she was distinguished-looking in the Flavian way—big jaw, large nose, grey eyes. As we watched the sweating, bloody men, she would occasionally shout to one or the other, "Kill him!" Whenever a particularly effective blow was dealt, she would gasp in a curiously intimate way, like a woman in the sexual act. Constantia was most alarming.